Evolution of the Third Street Saints
by Tankasaurus
Summary: Ever wondered why Shaundi became such a bitch? Why Pierce seems to have a stick up his ass? What the hell ever happened to Dex? The Saints find themselves in hot water, being pursued by a gang of such immense brutality that the military itself is powerless against them. Meanwhile, driven mad by paranoia, Dex is keen to wipe out the Saints with the aid of Ultor's latest product.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Yes, this is TheMagicPotatoe. Re-uploading my fic on this new account. Because, unfortunately I had my accounts hacked into by a certain IP-scanning cunt, named Gregory Daniels, and if he ever tries that bullshit again, I shall tear his scrawny lil cock off and re-purpose it as a scratching post for my cat. Just saying. Anyway, bitch-rant aside, hope you enjoy!**

The Boss was becoming impatient as she began pacing about the atrium of the Saints Hideout in the Bavogian Plaza situated in the lower class, Red Light District of Stilwater.. The grand sprawling staircases which were normally packed with purple-attired youths and scantily-clad strippers, were bare and the soft neon lighting was muted. It was half eleven in the evening, and most of the crew were either passed out somewhere or raising hell on the streets. The Boss didn't really give two shits how her homies spent their free time. So long as they were loyal and got the job done, then she was pretty mellow with them. Ever since the Saints had won back their city from that pompous asshole, Vogel, the Saints had free reign of the place. And the money they'd earned was certainly turning heads.

Flashy jewels and gold-plated license plates were like droplets in a sea of wealth. The Boss had acquired as much property as she could get her hands on, offering it to her crew for all of their hard work. She dug her phone out from between her impressive cleavage and began flicking through her contacts to see if she'd received any updates. When she found none, she cursed and picked up her pacing yet again. She kept peeking up at the staircases every now and again, becoming more and more distraught every time she saw the hollowness of it. Endless scenarios ran through her head. Her imagination kept tormenting her, as she lost herself in an endless stream of terrified thoughts. The alarm on her phone buzzed. Midnight.

She shook her head, then grabbed the SMG propped up against the white leather couch in the center of the room, and began sprinting up the steps, lunging across the balcony. Just as she rounded the corner she came face to face with just the motherfucker she'd been waiting to see. "Oh." She exclaimed, shoving her weapon into the waistband of her dark blue latex pants.

"Hey, Gat." The dark-haired asian street-tough re-sheated his hunting knife and nodded at her.

"Sup, Boss?" He slurred, the smell of beer on his cloths as he wiped a dribble of blood from the corner of his lip. She gave the slightest tilt of her head then lead him back down into the atrium.

"Ultor's a big company, Gat. It ain't gonna exactly sit there and take this shit lightly." Gat arched an eyebrow and smirked.

"And since when the fuck did you let that stop you?" He retorted. The Boss couldn't help but smile at that; a smile that brightened her golden tanned skin and made her pale blue eyes twinkle even in the dim lighting.

"It ain't. I'm just saying, we should probably have our guard up." Gat snorted at that. "I'm serious, Gat. They're not exactly gunna sit there and take it like a bitch." Gat stared off at the wall, his brow furrowed.

"Yeah, well maybe they should've thought of that before they decided to fuck around with some pussified street gangs in the first goddamn place." The Boss and Gat both stood side by side, guns at the ready facing the bar. Lined across the counter were empty bottles of beer leftover from the recent festivities. The Boss clicked the safety off.

"I know," she grumbled. "If only that motherfucking punk Julius hadn't tried to nuke me..." She trailed off, unable to look Gat in the eye.

The Boss knew that the murder of his girlfriend, Aisha was still an open wound for him. It had just occurred to her that if the Ronin had never been established in Stilwater, if the Saints had been around to stop them from taking this city... Then Aisha _might_ have lived. The Boss knew why she couldn't look Gat in the eye; it was because of her actions, because of her quest for revenge, to take back Stilwater, that Aisha had been killed. And yet Gat was the one left to suffer with her loss. The Boss shook off her guilt as she usually did – Gat wasn't the kind of guy that really talked about feelings anyway.

"Nevermind. Lets get to target practice."

Several rounds later and the two of them were somewhat satisfied with themselves. Keeping their skills honed was their own hobby. It had been ever since the Boss had joined the Saints. She didn't know why, but she'd always felt strangely soothed with a weapon in her hand. She'd carried it long enough that it'd began to feel like an extension of her own body – not being armed felt alien to her. The Boss rubbed her shoulder wistfully, feeling somewhat nostalgic for the familiar kick of a shotgun. Gat nodded at the shattered remains of the bottles and sighed.

"Man, fuck this. It ain't the same as moving targets." The Boss eyed him warily. "Hey, don't worry." He said. "I ain't gonna go around killing the crew." He paused. "Just those psycho cops." The Boss smiled.

"Good. Them motherfuckers just love to start shit."

"Yeah, you'd think they'd learn not to fuck with us." Johnny exclaimed, reloading his rifle. "Not after we took out that asshole, Vogel."

The Boss glanced over at him, noting how tensed his upper body was. She smiled, recalling when she first joined the Saints. Not long after she'd been canonized, and picked up her first weapon, she'd taken up target practice on her own accord. She remembered it clearly: she'd been fourteen at the time, short, with red curly dreads that framed her face. The bridge of her nose and cheeks were splattered with freckles and smudged with dirt. She remembered standing opposite the alter, tensed like a jungle cat. She'd been so wound up after her first brush with the Vice Kings that she felt like she'd snap at any moment. She'd mostly been running on adrenalin and gallons of soda from Freckle Bitches for the last few days after Julius had taken her under his wing.

So it came as a shock when as she was about to start up a second round, something cold and wet slapped into the back of her neck. Her shot hit way off target. She pivoted, gazing wildly around her, gun at the ready. She heard a chuckle from behind her, as Johnny brushed up alongside her, a cigarette teetering on his lips. He offered her a pack and she shook her head. Gat'd shrugged then turned and settled on the pew behind her, kicking his feet up and began rustling through his Fist burger. She glanced down and picked up the sweaty wrist band and chucked it aside. She bit her lip, afraid to speak. She gripped her pistol, wiping the grime off her hand, then regained her focus. Although, it was harder now that the tenseness in her shoulders had escalated. She fired a couple of shots that blasted about a meter off target. She sighed and face-palmed.

Gat let out a little chuckle, then licking the grease off his fingers, said.

"How the fuck did you and Troy take out those Vice Kings with shitty aim like that?" He smiled. She glared at him in response, yet he barely noticed. He sat up and walked over, patting her on the back.

"Look, man. You should loosen up." He said. She eyed him curiously. "Alright, here." He reached over and wrenched the gun from her hand. "Hold your gun to the side. One handed." She blushed, wanting to add the immature slur 'that's what she said' but held her tongue, and instead smiled. Gat surprisingly noticed the suggestive look he gave her, however he didn't show it. He continued, tweaking her elbow so that it was level with her shoulder.

"It'll make the kick much easier, than if you hold it double-handed like some goddamn super cop." He proceeded to correct her stance; "Quit standing like you're gonna shit a brick." Meanwhile, the Boss (then known casually as 'playa') listened patiently to Gat's instruction.

And so it had become something of a routine, their equivalent of afternoon tea. She may not have been with the Saints long, but she'd kept her ears to the ground, and it wasn't long until she'd figured them out. Or... She thought she had: she'd trusted Julius, Dex and Troy. All of them had turned out to be lying sellouts. With the possible exception of Troy; as it turned out, he'd grown sympathetic. Or perhaps he was scared of the Boss. Either way back when she'd first joined, she'd been intimidated by Gat's reputation of being the team badass. Now she'd come to know him as one of her closest friends. At the very least, he hadn't turned his back on the Saints. He was loyal; something which she could respect.

And that's why it hurt her to think about Aisha.

The Boss had let her down. Aisha's loss had changed Johnny so much. He spent less time practicing and more time outright murdering. Whenever he did turn up at the Mission house, he often had a haunted look about him, as if he'd aged a decade. The Boss couldn't help but notice that he'd started weightlifting a lot and drinking, particularly when there was nothing to do in town. She could clearly see that being cooped up like this was beginning to get to him. The Boss had entertained many thoughts on which to comfort her friend. Although she knew that all he wanted to do now, was kill every motherfucker that crossed his path.

After the last shell clang to the floor, there came an eerie silence that was thick with tension. And sawdust. The Boss took a deep breath, glancing up at Gat.

"I been thinking-" He cut her off, smirking

"A rare thing, huh?" She forced a smile and sat down upon the couch.

"Look, Gat... Call me a pussy, or whatever but... I'm startin' to get worried." She glanced up at him, her eyes sparkling with emotion. Gat was none the wiser.

"Hey, c'mon. We're the Saints. We already proven we can take down those dickless motherfuckers over at Ult–"

"I'm not talkin' about Ultor." She snapped. There was a long pause as she attempted to regain her composure. "I mean, yeah they are a concern, and it's not like we've got other shit to take care of, but fuck, Gat!" The Boss shot up, head in her hands. She began to pace again. There was an uncomfortable welling in her chest, as she felt a cold sheen of sweat developing all over her body. The unbidden memory of Gat trussed up in countless layers of bandages, pale as a sheet, lying alone on the hospital bed, as his heart rate beeped ever slower, before inevitably stopping altogether.

But it wasn't a memory. Not completely. The Boss worried that it might become a reality. Her heart leapt into her mouth, her throat constricting, going dry. She shook her head, calming herself. She glanced up at Gat's unconcerned expression. His eyes narrowed, seemingly challenging her to speak. She returned his gaze, unflinching and not giving anything away. She sighed, deflating all tension.

"Just... Don't get killed." She affirmed. His hardened expression melted away. He nodded, a small smile replacing his frosty look.

"Hey, no promises, Boss." The two of them bro-fisted, before turning separate ways, each going to clean up their own mess. Meanwhile, the Boss felt a hot flush run across her cheeks as tears welled in her eyes. _It would seem_, she thought, _that losing Gat could cause me more pain than being blown to hell. _She then added, snidely to herself; _at least that had been quick_.


	2. Chapter 2

Some hours later, the Boss emerged from her tiny crib in the Red Light District, a few blocks from the Mission house. After tidying up the glass and other shrapnel that carpeted the floor, she'd stormed off in search of a comfy bed to rest her head upon. Sadly, sleep had come unbidden to her, as she couldn't shake the dreaded feeling in her stomach. She kept picturing hundreds of scenarios where Gat kept throwing his life away, becoming more and more reckless. Perhaps this was what it was like to feel guilty over the death of an innocent, such as Aisha. When she realized that sleep would be near impossible, she began pacing once again. Her crib was furnished very well, for a shoebox, with a 45inch plasma screen, full stereo system, a stripper pole, a king size bed, and a sleek kitchen accented with white tiling upon the counter-tops and bright red wallpaper.

She reached for a beer from the squat fridge, before continuing her pacing. She hadn't even bothered to change, still clad in tight blue leather pants, with a matching hippie crop top, accented with red and white, the colours of the Union Jack. She took a gulp from her beer, idly glancing at her watch. It read 3:54am. She rolled her eyes, gnawing her lip. She began contemplating ploughing a monster truck into the side of a milk factory, before deciding on something less violent. She finished her beer, then smashed it against the wall, striding out of her apartment and 'round the side of the building to the garage. There, she summoned her pride and joy: a dark purple Baron with gleaming gold trim and rims. Every time she laid eyes upon the decadent devil, she felt a glimmer of pride. Its' plush seats and elegant framework had been entirely designed by herself down to the last detail. It was like her soul-car.

She slipped into the driver's seat, tapping open the glove compartment, then sliding on a pair of jet-black sunglasses, she keyed the ignition. The car rumbled to life, and she grinned. She dashed out of the driveway, and began zigzagging haphazardly through the back-streets, until she came to a stop outside of the the local theater. She eyed the signs from within the confines of her car, a hand instinctively gripped the steering wheel, whilst the other caressed the pistol resting against her thigh. As she watched, under the cover of darkness, she couldn't help but notice a lone couple in the shadows. The woman giggling as she clung to her date, whom was clearly just as hooked on her every word. The Boss felt an odd kind of yearning, her throat clenching. She tried to think of any given time when she'd been taken to see a movie. She remembered her school across the pond had offered a field trip to the theater once. Snow White, she recalled. Except how she wasn't allowed to go. She remembered the reason, even now. She didn't want the glare of the lights blaring onto her face... She didn't want the others to see the marks...

The distant echo of police sirens made her teeth grind. She sighed then gripped the steering wheel. She needed advice. Thankfully, she knew where she'd always be welcome. She began heading to the south west section of Stilwater, cruising through the steel and glass business district. She made a point of flipping off the outrageously huge Ultor building as she drove past; it itself being a permanent middle finger to the lower class. She smiled, wondering how and when the Saints'd get to tear it down. Hopeful thoughts of RPG rocket launchers, machine gun mounted helicopters, and flame spitting tanks brightened her mood, as she parked outside of the grand Saints Row church.

She stepped out of the car, marveling at the huge changes made to the place. It seemed the entire building had been raised, and coated with a fresh layer of paint, making it look like the glistening holy place that it was meant to be. Ironically there were hardly any patrons to be seen, then again, it was a little bit early, even for mass. As the Boss ascended the steps to the main hall, she couldn't help but notice the lack of avant garde to compliment the walls. She clutched at the small cross around her neck. She often kept it hidden down her shirt so that none of the crew would see. She'd never exactly been a religious person, even before she joined the Saints. She'd never really paid attention in school, and whilst her father had identified as a Catholic, the Boss had never attended a church service before. In fact, she'd never been to a church until Julius came along. She supposed a church service would be like that, except less canonizing.

She heaved a heavy sigh. She sank into the nearest pew, clasping her hands together between her knees, head bowed. The place was empty, yet she was still cautious. Hesitantly, she placed her weapon on the stone floor. The air was cold, and musky, mingled with the intense smell of toilet cleaner. She wet her lips and uttered softly.

"Ok, erm. God. I may not be one of your regulars. But I gotta admit. I don't know what I'm gunna do now. I mean, what more is there for me to accomplish? I took back Stilwater, I killed Julius... What more is there?" In a much lower, deadlier voice she uttered

"I would like to take out Dex too, but that fucker's trail has gone cold. I don't know where the fuck a bastard like him'd go." She gazed hopefully at the alter, eyes wandering, as she waited for some kind of response. She shook her head, casting a quick glance at the shadows for anyone listening. Then in a much quieter, almost unrecognizable voice, like that of a child, she added;

"I can't stop thinking about them... Everyday. First Lin, then Aisha, Carlos..." The names made her grimace, remembering each cruel fate. Her voiced dropped further to a choked whisper.

"I... Just... Don't want to lose anyone else. I've plenty of blood on my hands as it is." She clasped her hands together, her palms sweating.

"I can't stop thinking about them. Sure they knew the risks of being in a gang." She paused, shaking off her rising hysteria.

She swallowed, clearing her parched throat.

"But that doesn't change the fact that they were also my friends." She glanced back up at the alter, eyes glazed over as tears threatened to spill.

"And then I think about Gat. And what would happen to him if he... if he..." Her chest clenched. The very thought of him dying was unbearable. Much like Shaundi, the Boss had looked up to him as a role model when she first joined. But in recent months something about that dynamic had changed. Maybe it was Gat's limited ability to lead, or just their common goals, but he'd trusted the Boss and grown to respect her as a leader. The Boss wasn't sure how to feel about that still. Although, she was certainly glad to have the Saints and Stilwater back; being the leader seemed to come naturally to her. She sighed and bit the inside of her cheek

"I just... can't stand the thought of losing anyone else. So please... God?" She glanced back up at the alter, yet again, growing more and more dismayed by the lack of a holy intervention.

"Fuck this. Like I need to waste my time with this bullshit." She rose from the pew, pistol in hand. She shot a nearby stain-glass window and leapt out. She rounded the building, idly kicking at the nearby flowerbeds as she passed.

The same tenseness from when she'd first joined had returned, bunching up the knots in her shoulders like a coiled up cobra. She sighed, wondering if it'd be safe to get pissed in her bathtub with a bottle of tequila when she caught a glimpse of a shadow across the parking lot. A woman stood eyeing her from beneath a streetlamp. The Boss felt the familiar kick of adrenalin rush through her veins, as she removed her pistol from the waistband of her pants, twirling it about her fingers. Her eyes were locked upon the sultry figure. The Boss arched an eyebrow, resting her free hand on her hip.

"Little early to be pimpin', don't ya think, lady?" She questioned the woman in the shadows. She stepped forward and the woman tossed a cigarette onto the asphalt and stomped it out. The woman purred, then in a heavy Spanish accent, she replied;

"It never too early for a lil fun." The woman sashayed into the light, projecting an aura of confidence, winking at the Boss.

She had olive toned skin and bright green eyes that seemed stuck half shut (like Jessica Rabbit, and about as much eyeshadow) with a messy mane of black hair, styled into a makeshift bun. She had small, pouty red lips, a sharp nose, and thin arced eyebrows. She was slim, with long legs yet still short, and with wide hips. The woman wore a dark orange band, barely covering her midriff with matching boots, and dark leopard printed pants that hugged her figure. Her neck, wrists, fingers and ears were all choked with golden bangles. The Boss caught a glimpse of metal sticking out of the woman's boot – a butterfly knife.

The Boss huffed, slowly circling the woman, eyes locked on her.

"You know it's not polite to follow people." She slurred. The woman gave a soft chuckle, waving her gold-clad hand dismissively.

"Don't mind me, girlie. I was just passing through this toxic-spewing vomit-puddle." The woman pursed her lips, a glisten in her eye as she brushed passed the Boss.

"Watch yourself, Chelsea." The woman whispered a hint of venom in her words. The Boss instantly tensed, rooted to the spot. She pivoted on the spot, reaching out for the woman's arm, however she'd already disappeared into the darkness. The Boss could feel her heart beating drastically and sweat rising to her palms. The Boss hadn't been addressed with her forename for over half a decade. Panic spread through her as she anxiously began scanning the Row for the weirdo woman, tearing apart bush after bush and checking every nook and cranny for her. Maybe she was one of them gypsies or something, the kind that claimed to know all that hocus pocus voodoo shit. Still, that didn't explain how she knew the Boss' name... No one knew that. No one cared, either.

After nearly an hour of fretting and uninterrupted pacing, the Boss shook it off. Maybe she'd taken too many hits off the lightbulb with Pierce and Shaundi. Although, to be on the safe side...

"Troy?" She barked down the phone. The tired police officer sighed. He sounded like he'd just woken up.

"Kid, unlike you, I have a day job." He paused to yawn then continued "What d'you want?"

"I need you to get in touch with the airport security." She replied. Troy was silent for a moment, taken aback.

"And why the fuck would I do that?" He snapped.

"Unless you want Saints/Ultor to cut off their most generous funding–" Troy interrupted;

"Look, kid. I wish I could help you, I really do. I may be chief of police, but airline security? I already do enough for you sneaking paperwork around my own office without having to go infiltrate another department. What do you need there anyway?"

"Video footage. It seems I've got me a tail. A very long and unwanted one." She grumbled.

"And you can't do this yourself, why?" He asked impatiently. Poor fucker probably wanted to get back to bed. The Boss tsked

"Bitch, do I look like a hacker to you? Besides, it'd be easier going in with an actual cop." As good as Shaundi was with tech, the Boss didn't feel comfortable involving her crew in this minor situation. Especially one that seemed to be linked to her past. Troy groaned.

"Alright, fine. I'll meet you at the airport, after work on Friday, ok?" The Boss smiled to herself and nodded.

"Good."

"Now fuck off and let me sleep." He growled. Instantly, the line went dead.

"Love you too, Troy." She grinned, then shoved her cell back down her shirt, feeling slightly less disturbed.


	3. Chapter 3

There came a round of loud bangs from the living room of the university loft. Shaundi bolted upright from her bed, knocking off the guy draped around her like a python. Her skin felt flushed as she kicked off the covers and crawled away, keeping low as she glanced around, eyes adjusting to the darkness. She fumbled for her cellphone hidden in the bedsheets. She flicked it open, briefly checking the time. 6am. She couldn't remember ever being up that early.

Another couple of bangs sounded, startling her, losing her phone over the banister. "Shit!" She hissed under her teeth. She scrambled for her rifle, dumped at the foot of the spiral staircase. She picked it up then crept to the door, creaking it open, nuzzling the weapon through the crack as she peeked through. Another face met hers, grinning sheepishly. A bald black man dressed in a business suit met her, his grey eyes shining. His sleeves were rolled up and his tie was loosened. She racked her brain, trying to remember if she'd ever seen this guy naked before. A look of dazed confusion passed her face. The man spoke in a soft clear voice

"Hey, uh. Sorry to bother you this early, but my car broke down outside your place." He nodded over to the sleek black Crompton saddled up to the pavement.

"I wondered if I could use your phone? It's kind've urgent" Shaundi took a few seconds to process this, her mind still fuzzy from the beer bong.

"Sure." She said hesitantly, idly brushing away a lock of hair, then stepping aside so he could come in.

He smiled, grabbing his suitcase and coffee. He hurried inside, Shaundi eyeing him warily, her rifle behind her back.

"Is there something wrong with _your_ cell?" She asked. He seemed embarrassed.

"Yeah, my little brother has it."

"Ah. That's sweet."

"Look, I don't mean to be rude, but could you just give me the number for a taxi?" Shaundi arched an eyebrow. Clearly this guy wasn't from Stilwater.

"Dude, you'd have to wait hours for a taxi this early. You're probably better off walking." The guy seemed to wince, possibly cursing under his breath.

"D'you know a place where I can borrow a car?" He asked.

Shaundi shook her head. "Sorry. Raj, right?"

The guy's face went blank, suddenly confused. "No." He said, uneasy. "My name's Tom. I'm sorry, have we met before?"

Now it was Shaundi's turn to feel embarrassed. "No, I just thought I recognised you." She paused, then outstretched her hand.

"I'm Shaundi, by the way." He nodded, eyes glancing around.

He seemed pretty jumpy. Maybe he was some crackhead that'd gone nuts. She double-checked to see if his car was actually there.

She shrugged then turned back to him. "Y'know, if you need a ride I can take you."

His features brightened, then he sighed with relief. "Please! That would be great!"

Within minutes, the two were strapped in Shaundi's bright red 'party' van. Tom shifted uncomfortably in the narrow space that was the shotgun seat. Shaundi found herself drumming her fingers on the wheel, gnawing the inside of her cheek. Shaundi wasn't the kind of girl that liked prolonged silences such as this. Tom seemed pretty stressed out, and even though she didn't know him, she hated seeing anyone upset.

Without taking her eyes off the road, she nodded towards him then asked "So what's the emergency again?"

Tom snapped out of his rabid nail-biting and glanced at her, brows raised and eyes brightened. "Job interview." He nodded back, biting his lip then took a sip of his coffee.

"Cool. In what?" She asked.

"Motors." He paused, smiling to himself. "I have a thing for classic cars." He added. Shaundi figured that explained the Crompton.

"So you workin' at Rim Jobs?" She asked.

His eyes widened "What? No. I'm selling cars, not fixin' them. Place called Foreign Power."

"Oh right. Which one?"

"It's the one in the museum district? D'you know the place?"

Shaundi gave an uncertain shrug. "Eh, kind of. I think my class came through the area on an art trip, once."

Tom arched an eyebrow at her. "You _think_, huh?" He said, eyeing her. Shaundi pouted. Fine if he wanted to be a judgemental jerk. She was the one doing him a favour after all.

She promptly switched on the radio. The station was Ultor FM. Which had been bought back from Ultor, and went back to it's original name, GenX. Shaundi could feel her fingers clench around the steering wheel. The radio station her ex, Veteran Child had worked for. Both her and Tom reached for the knob to change it, their hands brushing. Shaundi playfully slapped it away.

"Number one rule you need to learn in Stilwater. Driver controls the radio." She grinned mischievously.

Tom gave a small chuckle. "I'll keep that in mind next time." There was a brief pause as Shaundi flicked through the stations, settling on The Mix. She grinned as her favourite song, (insert song name) started playing, nodding along.

Tom stiffened. "Wait. How'd you know I'm not from Stilwater?"

Shaundi smiled, glancing at him. "Easy, just need to ask you one question. Do you like the Skeeters?"

"Who're the Skeeters?" He asked, dumbfounded.

Shaundi's smile grew. "Exactly." She paused. "So, car salesman, huh? Kind've ironic I guess."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Y'know, how your car's busted?" She said.

"I'm pretty certain that's not ironic." He grumbled.

The car veered up alongside the pavement a few blocks from Humbolt Park on Tom's request. He hopped out of the van, yanking out his suitcase.

He turned and nodded politely. "Thanks for the ride. Shaundi, was it?"

She smiled and gave him a thumbs up gesture. "Yeah. Hey, listen. Take it easy in that interview. You'll totally nail it." He gave her a cheery salute before turning on his heels and striding over to Foreign Power. Shaundi studied his confident stride, idly wondering if he had a ring on his finger.

She was startled out of her brief daydream by the ringing of her phone. She snatched it off the dashboard and answered without checking the caller ID.

"Where the hell you at, Shaundi?" snapped the all-too-familiar whiny voice that belonged to Pierce. "I just got a call from the Boss, bitching at me for not turning up to pick up the dust."

Shaundi sucked her teeth. "Well I'm sorry about that Pierce, but maybe you should take more responsibility."

"The hell, girl! You said you were going to do it! You told me to not worry about it! I _specifically_ remember having this discussion with you for the _fifth time_ last night. You said you were going to pick up the stuff, then deliver the goods to our boys _today_!"

Shaundi's free hand came up in a warding off gesture. "Hey, just chill, Pierce. The Boss asked you to do it for a reason."

Pierce guffawed. "Like what? Why can't you do it? Isn't the Loa Dust _your_ responsibility?"

"I'm sorry Pierce," she said, in a small voice, like a kitten being scolded. "I had to take care of some things."

There was a pause. "Wait. You were already up? Before noon?" Pierce asked, disbelief in his voice.

Shaundi opened her mouth to defend her pride but he cut her off.

"Look, forget it. I'm already at the meeting spot, and the crew are waiting. We'll talk later." The call ended before Shaundi could register the bitterness in his goodbye.

On the opposite side of the city, Pierce shut his phone angrily, tilting his head over to where the three Saints were huddled outside the main drug lab, awaiting orders. He took a deep breath, feeling immensely calmer, then swung open the door of his cosmo sports car. He swaggered his way over to the group.

"The stuff all ready to go?" He asked. The short caucasian guy spoke first.

"Yeah, brother. All loaded up for ya." A female black lady turned on her heels, escorting Pierce to the truck with a sexy sway that went unnoticed by him. All of them had their weapons at the ready in case they had to defend the product. Pierce was very hesitant. He wasn't used to doing this shit, but still, the drugs needed to be shipped, often early in the morning. Ridiculously early. Today, it would be going out late due to Shaundi being unable to attend. Tensions were high as the crew rounded the corner of the farm facility.

Pierce was half tempted to call the Boss for further instructions, however he didn't want to seem incompetent. He knew the location for the drug storage, situated in the student housing south of the university campus. From there the crew could pick up their stock to be sold to the students. He knew the safest and quickest route, and was more than certain that he had enough firepower. Still, he couldn't help but feel unappreciated. The group went 'round to the back of the truck. The white kid making a point of showing off the product, offering Pierce some, whilst the black girl and her hispanic friend double-checked the truck for explosives.

Within five minutes, the team were on the road. Pierce gripped the wheel, eyes fixed ahead, the truck seemingly moving at the pace of a snail during rush hour. He was wary, tensing at every police siren that whizzed past the truck. Meanwhile, the white kid, whom Pierce had learned was called Daniel, kept bragging about how much of a heavyweight he was, and how he'd had a three-way. The two girls seemed to look at each other awkwardly when he mentioned that, groaning and telling him to get the fuck over himself. Pierce mostly tried to tune it out, checking his watch periodically.

The hispanic lady, Angela shifted in her seat and nudged him. "You ok, bruv? You seem stressy."

Her friend, Rebecca (whom was sadly sat in the back of the truck with Daniel) peeped up. "Yeah, you barely said a word the whole time."

Angela smiled, resting her hand on Pierce's knee.

He grinned, glancing at her. "It's ok, girl. I'm just looking forward to later."

The girls let out a high-pitched 'ooooooo'. "You got a hot date, huh, Pierce?" Rebecca chirped.

Pierce's smile grew, chuckling a little. "Pretty much." The girls repeated their 'oooooo', followed by Daniel giving his 'spectacular dating advice', which Rebecca and Angela proceeded to critique.

All the while, Pierce kept checking the clock, wanting desperately to bolt.

After the goods were delivered and everything sorted, Pierce called for a cab back to the Downtown Loft where he rushed inside, barging past the Saints and strippers that seemed to clutter the place. He grabbed a large black bag, and as he passed through the living room, he caught a glimpse of some bright orchids in a vase on the tabletop. He quickly snatched them up then ran down and practically dove into the waiting taxi.

He drummed his fingers on his knees, teeth grinding as he waited for the taxi to pull up alongside his destination. He flung a bundle of cash at the driver then lept out, sprinting up the steps and burst through the door of the Stilwater Hospital. He smiled at the receptionist, Cecilia, a short African lady with thick black hair, combed neatly around her freckled face.

Her dark eyes zoned in on Pierce and smiled. "Oh Pierce, honey!" She leaned over her desk, embracing him in a hug. Pierce shifted awkwardly, feeling a little embarrassed. She kissed his cheek twice then pulled away, beaming at him. "It's been so long! How've you been?"

Pierce nodded "Good, good." He adjusted the tip of his baseball cap, Cecilia catching a glimpse of the bundle of flowers.

She gasped "Oh, are those for her?"

Pierce nodded again, smiling sheepishly. "Yeah, I figured I should make it up to her."

Cecilia smiled warmly. "She's a lucky lady." She handed him a visitors sticker. "You know where she is."

Pierce trumped upstairs passing the special care ward. He came to a halt outside of one of the rooms. He stepped inside. The room was dark, the blinds closed. The only noise coming from the life support machine as it whirred in the background. Pierce smiled and set down his heavy bag, then sat on the edge of the bed, resting the flowers on the nightstand. On the bed, hooked up to all manner of tubes, lay a middle-aged woman with graying hair and dark skin. She had a strong chin, and narrow eyes, her nose sharp and cheeks soft. Pierce let out a heavy sigh and gently took the woman's wrinkled hand in his.

"Hey, mom." He whispered, tears threatening to spill. "Sorry I couldn't come to see you on your birthday. I asked sis if she wanted to come today, but she's with her boyfriend, and well... y'know how stubborn she is." He paused, a tear splashing on his palm.

He smiled "I remember how when we were little, you used to take us to that park after school, and when it was time to go, she'd cling to the jungle gym, and she'd would refuse to leave."

He paused, smiling to himself at the memory. "I remember me and her would hide in that giant bush in our yard every morning. You used to hate that, especially when we missed the bus everytime."

He chuckled softly, then bit his lip, glancing up at her blank expression. "I know you were only looking out for us. Even when dad left, you were always there, always strong." He paused. If only he'd been there for her that night... That night, when the Ronin had first arrived in Stilwater.

It'd been a miracle that his sister had only walked away with a mild concussion and some whiplash. His mother, sadly hadn't been so lucky. Pierce had been out partying with his friends on the hockey team when he got the call from the police. It'd happened three years ago, yet even now that the Ronin were finished, Pierce still felt empty without his family. He smiled faintly then turned 'round, unzipping his bag and pulled out an acoustic guitar, already tuned to perfection. He began plucking at the strings, playing a simple, soft melody. He pursed his lips, allowing the lyrics to a song he'd memorized to flow forth. Normally he'd be self conscious of a nurse, or doctor listening in, but today his focus was all on his mother. So much had changed in the last few months, yet he'd always hoped in the back of his mind, that joining the Saints, killing the Ronin might make him feel a little bit better. Granted, the Saints had given him a purpose and the pay was great.

Before he'd joined the Saints, he'd been scraping by on friendly loans and part time jobs, so that a large portion of his salary could pay for his mother's medical bills. Even though money was no longer an issue, he was beginning to wonder if his mother would ever wake from her coma. At first, the estimate had been two months. Then twelve. Then twenty four. Now the doctor was saying that there was a slim chance that she'd ever wake up. His little serenade ended as he noticed the heart rate monitor. It was gradually beginning to beat faster. He gripped his mother's hand, as a group of doctors barged in, most of which were prepped for an operation it seemed.

"What's wrong?" Pierce asked, head swivelling around the room from person to person, about as panicked as the doctors seemed.

The leading doctor, took his mother's clipboard, shrewdly making a quick note. Pierce's heart nearly skipped a beat as he attempted to paw his way through the crowd to get to his mother.

"What's happening?" He yelled as the leading doctor, Mr Martin, restrained him, dragging a hysteric Pierce towards the door. Once out of the room, Pierce pressed himself up against the window, panting. He spun 'round to face Martin.

"Is she ok?" He asked. Martin held up a hand to calm Pierce whilst clutching the clipboard to his chest.

"We believe so. According to our data, she's showed increased signs of brain activity in the past few days, so today might be the day, but we can't be certain." Pierce felt a small spark of hope bud in his chest. Although, he did wonder...

"Why's this the first I've heard about this?"

Martin looked taken aback. "Well, we tried to call, but we couldn't get through to you. We left you a message last week." Pierce cursed, suddenly feeling stupid. And selfish. He'd been at a frat party with his old high school buddies, introducing them to some of the crew.

"I'm sorry, I didn't get it." Pierce couldn't take his eyes off the crowd around his mother. He could see her hand peeking out between the busying doctors, and Pierce swore he saw it twitch.

Martin told him he'd contact him the instant he found any new developments. Clutching his guitar, Pierce stormed out. His emotions were all muddled up. He felt joy that his mother might finally wake up, fear that she might very well pass away, and disappointment in himself. Martin insisted that Pierce head home, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He felt obliged to stay in the hospital all night if he had to, until he found out the results. He wanted to be as close to his mother as he could.

He propped his guitar up beside him in the waiting room, glancing at his phone. He was tempted to turn it off, but resisted. If the Boss called him up, he wanted to be there. If Martin called him up, he also wanted to be there. He checked his watch. It was 1pm, and yet Pierce suddenly felt tired. He tucked his palms behind his head, stretched out his legs, leaned his head back, slouched in his seat and waited for the call.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I wanted to preface this by crediting MisterMagic25, who's constructive feedback helped give me the ideas for this chapter. Cheers, mate!**

Later that afternoon, rain began to lash the streets of Stilwater. The swollen gutters belched out unpleasant fumes that made Gat wrinkle his nose. It smelt about as foul as the Mission House, back when those hobos had inhabited it. He glanced up at one of the many idyllic run-down apartments that clustered around Sommerset, rain splattering onto his sunglasses. He sighed and shook his head. It had to be done, and done soon. He mounted the steps, kicking in the front door. He stormed up the stairs to the third floor and knocked several times, on the door labelled five.

Eventually after the brief sound of crashing, the door swung open. A short, skinny, African girl greeted him, her braided hair arranged in a high bun. She was wearing a bright pink tank top and a short lime-green mini skirt, a gold belly ring peeking out from between the two garments. Her bright yellow and pink make-up was outrageous; Gat didn't hide his distaste.

"What you looking at, Gat?" The girl snapped, a hand on her hip, a pair of multicolored bracelets jingling around her wrist. Gat was very tempted to make a snide comment about how she looked like a seventies clown on acid, but he resisted, shaking it off.

"Tina, you're still a kid. There ain't nothing much _to_ look at." Gat barged past her. Her apartment was cluttered with ironic-looking T-shirts, including a Skeeters uniform that reeked of sweat and shame, along with plenty of ruffled blankets, and discarded food containers, vodka bottles, and chip packets. On the walls, old posters of bands, were peeling.

In the corner, Gat noticed a familiar one. A half-naked, African woman dressed in a bright purple basketball jersey, and a cute baseball cap that covered her long dreads. Even though she was kneeling, legs splayed, a suggestive gleam in her eye, she resembled an elegant Goddess. Even now, Gat missed her smooth, gentle voice. The way she'd sing, could melt hearts. The girl, Tina cast a glance over her shoulder at the picture. She paused, watching as Gat sank into her lumpy old couch.

"How's my sister been?" She asked, cautiously, eyeing him. "I haven't gotten a call from her in months. Did something happen?" He blinked, able to tear his gaze away from the picture, his heart wrenching at the bitter-sweet sight of his now-dead girlfriend. It was then that her words hit him.

"Dead." He replied. His bluntness shocked them both.

She was briefly flustered, dropping the peacock feather she'd been twiddling. "What?" She spluttered. "How?" Her eyes narrowed, glaring viciously at him. He was unaware. "You..." She growled low, folding her arms.

Gat's rage spiked as he shot out of his seat, his entire body tensed as he took a menacing step towards her.

"The fuck you say?" The accusation was so despicable, that he would've snapped her neck. What stopped him was the small fact that Tina was Eesh's little sister, nevermind how much of a loathsome tart Tina was. Gat was more than aware of how Tina liked to cause bullshit drama. Much like Tanya, Tina liked to manipulate men with the promise of sex and power.

As Gat gradually began to calm down, he noticed Tina's wide eyes and shaking fingers, trying ever so hard to remember that technically, it'd be wrong to hit a lady. Even if that lady was a complete harlot, she was at least related to a lady. He glanced away from her, recalling that Aisha wouldn't have wanted them to be hostile like this. He narrowed his eyes at her.

Seemingly reading his mind, she sighed "Sorry. I just- Nevermind. I just figured that, y'know, being a banger'd-"

He cut her off, idly waving her off. "Just... Don't. All you need to know is that it's taken care of."

Her mouth dropped open "What, you already had the funeral? You still haven't even told me what the fuck _happened_ to her!" Her voice quivered either with excitement or awash with sorrow, Gat was unable to be sure. She seemed to grip the edge of the couch, as if he were about to tell her a long-awaited bed time story.

Gat was having trouble not-gagging as the smell of pot washed over him the closer she sat. He grimaced, recalling how he'd buried Eesh's body in her own garden. At the time, he'd had little money to afford a proper funeral, plus he wasn't comfortable with making a big thing of it. By the time he'd gotten out of hospital, her body had been wrapped in plastic bags, courtesy of the Boss, whom had raided the morgue mere hours after the Ronin attacked the hospital. Eesh's plastic-clad corpse lay across the busted glass table in her blood-stained living room. Gat remembered the smell, a sweet stench of decay, mingled with the all-too-familiar, musky scent of her perfume. Her very own brand, one that she'd been very proud of, called _Lush_, back from her days as a singer. Gat'd never really cared for it, but then again, he'd very rarely given a fuck about girly shit like that.

Eesh's funeral had been a private gathering (only the Boss and himself in attendance) at her house that day. It'd been the first time Gat had cried in front of anyone, although he was certain the Boss hadn't noticed. Part of Gat knew that Eesh deserved far better, that she deserved a proper funeral, with as many family and friends as possible, with an array of flowers and a procession... However, he didn't want to risk it being destroyed by the Ronin, the fucking bastards that had ended her life. They did not deserve to come anywhere near her ever again. The only consolation he'd had at the time, was that Jyunichi was dead. But that hadn't been enough for Gat; he would go to the ends of the Earth to make sure every last Ronin was slaughtered. Anything to avenge Aisha. Anything to make them suffer for what they had done. It was on that day, that Gat had concocted his plan to enact his revenge upon that little brat, Shogo.

He glanced over at Tina. "She was beheaded. The Ronin. I tried to stop them but she... Look, I was too late, ok?" He rose, glaring down at Tina. "Don't you think I'd give anything to have her back?" Tina shook her head softly.

"No. I don't think you would."

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?" He snapped. She stood in an attempt to look intimidating, although she was barely half his height.

"It means, I think there's something else!" She eyed him warily, pursing her lips. He appeared to be confused.

"I study journalism, y'know. Me and her both knew, the way you looked at... _others_." Tina sneered, pronouncing the word 'others' with as much bitterness as possible. Yet Gat was more hurt by the insinuation that Aisha had thought he was cheating on her. But then again, Gat knew better than to believe a manipulative little girl like Tina. Someone whom would actively provoke people in order to earn victim status. She was little more than a petty attention whore. She was really making a good case for being punched in the face by this point; Gat almost regretted saving her from the Vice Kings, that one time. Yet... There was a hint of uncertainty; Tina and Eesh had been very close. Particularly in the years that she'd been on the put on the DL.

Gat glared at Tina, considering his words carefully.

"When Jane Valdarama looks like a decent news anchor, in comparison, I think that says something." He growled, then stalked out the door. Tina unfolded her arms and attempted to stride after him, her mouth already open and ready to spew forth more bullshit accusations and foul expletives. He slammed the door shut, thundering down the stairs, unclenching his fists as he went. He'd at least accomplished what needed to be done. Namely, informing Tina of her sister's passing. He heaved a heavy sigh, eyes clouding with tears. _Fuck_, he thought. _Not here, not now_, he silently pleaded with himself. He glanced down, his nails digging into the flesh of his palm, until his tears faded away. Anything to take his mind off his girlfriend's death.

His efforts were unsuccessful, as he continued to walk back to the mission house. In his mind, he pictured the poster of her, her bright smile, her spirit, her stubbornness, and her cheek, had always made her so attractive. She was a challenge, and Gat loved that about her. Yet she was still a kind, gentle woman. She was honest, and smart... A true saint, after all. He felt his heart clench. All of these years, he'd felt a small flicker of resentment towards her, for choosing fame over rolling with the Saints. Granted, she'd inevitably bounced back. Their relationship wasn't perfect, but they had made it work, for so long... Until...

_No_, he thought._ Don't focus on the bad times_. He recalled how they'd met, mere classmates at Stilwater High. Even back then, she'd been witty, confident, and brutal on the dating scene. She'd been the femme fatale that every bookworm lusted after. She was head of the music department, and a candidate for class president. Gat, on the other hand had been that reckless psychotic bad boy that'd beat up teachers for daring to make witty quips at his expense. He remembered it exactly. An ex of hers, and a rival when running for class president, had threatened to spread rather explicit rumors amongst the school. Gat's natural reaction to such behavior had been to beat the shit out of the guy, and was quickly ambushed by the squirmy fucker and his large group of football fellows. Although Gat had predictably come out on top, he'd still walked away with a black eye. Compared to the rest of his attackers, whom would certainly not be sharing any sexual remarks until their jaw bones were reattached to their skulls.

He remembered the soft feel of the tissue placed ever so tenderly on his eye, by Aisha. Despite his qualms that he was fine, she'd practically dragged him to the nearest bathroom to be cleaned up. She'd expressed such gratitude, complimenting Gat on his most impressive brawn. He'd smiled, retorting with a cavalier pick-up line about how he was _all_ brawn. She'd laughed and playfully requested he be her kinky bodyguard. It wasn't long after that the two exchanged numbers, and not long after that had they started on and off again dating. Those first few weeks had certainly been tough, though. He recalled her parents were never too fond of him, calling him scum, a deadbeat, a psychopath, as well as many other things. Tina had only been abit younger, yet she'd originally been overly fond of Gat. Even going as far as to try and break them up, by lying to Eesh numerous times, claiming that Gat had groped her. Gat sneered; her meager B cups were pathetic, anyway. About as pathetic as the person they were attached to.

Then something hit him, so sudden that he halted. He never remembered seeing the Boss at Stilwater High. Sometimes he couldn't help but wander about her mysterious past, one that she rarely talked about. He shrugged, dismissing the issue as irrelevant; fine if the Boss didn't want to share these things. Plenty of the crew weren't born in the U.S let alone in this run-down town. He jolted, feeling his phone buzz. Probably a sobbing Tina, he figured. He sighed and answered.

"The fuck d'you want?" He snapped.

"A competent lieutenant." The Boss grumbled in response. "You free at all?"

Gat paused for a moment. "Yeah, why? Something happen?"

"No," the Boss replied coldly. "Just wondered if you could give me a hand with an escort. Y'know, for old times sake?"

Gat arched an eyebrow at this slightly odd request. He didn't mind doing odd jobs that involved killing, but an escort? He'd done it once with Troy back when he'd first joined. However with Gat's poor driving, it was a miracle that the ho and her client hadn't be powderized. Despite his unease, Gat agreed without hesitation. He needed a distraction, and maybe if he was lucky, he'd get to shoot something. A most pleasing thought.

The Boss sat in a rented SUV, tapping her fingers on the wheel. She knew she didn't need any help, really. She was concerned for Gat, and wanted to keep a closer eye on him. She was still uncertain what to do with him. Maybe he needed therapy? Perhaps Shaundi could hook him up with some cheap anti-depressants. Anything to keep him in check. She chewed the inside of her cheek. But would that be fair? She was startled by a gentle tap on the window opposite the driver's seat. Gat waved and she unlocked the door. He slipped in. There was a cold tense silence. The Boss nodded tersely then promptly set off to go pick up the ho, whom ironically, was dressed up as a very skimpy cop. As she shifted into reverse, heading to pick up the client, the Boss peered over at Gat whom kept fidgeting with his gun, narrowing his eyes in thought, occasionally biting his lip and sighing heavily. She wondered if assisting in an escort was making him uncomfortable. She wondered if he was thinking of Eesh...

The Boss had no recollection of how Gat and Aisha had ended up together. At first they seemed like a dysfunctional couple to her, however in recent months, the Boss had come to know them as one of the strongest and most loyal of couples she'd seen. Although, the Boss herself, had very little experience with happy families, it was quite obvious, the affections the two had shared. Aisha had always been a warm, welcoming lady. In some ways she seemed like Gat's opposite, however that didn't mean she wasn't his match, particularly when it came to prized things such as loyalty.

The ho gave a loud yelp and Gat clutched the dashboard, shouting; "Boss! Wake the fuck up!" Her head snapped up from her musings, noticing the looming clifface that signified a dead end. She quickly jerked the wheel to the right, sending the car power sliding, skidding to a halt. The car came to a stop, resting mere inches from the clifface.

Gat laughed, letting out a brief, "Woohoo!" before lightly punching the Boss' shoulder. "And you call my driving shitty?"

The Boss smiled, swerving the car back on track, shaking herself out of her reverie. "Yeah well you drive like a crack-head, without the excuse of being coked up." She snapped back, smirking.

Gat chuckled softly to himself. "Let's just agree that Shaundi drives way better than both of us." They both grinned, Gat watching her curiously.

"Is something up? You don't normally ask me to help you with this kind of shit." He asked, nudging her. The Boss blinked, the question catching her off guard.

She shook her head. "No, nothing's wrong." She replied tersely. "In fact, I should be asking you the same thing." She grumbled.

Gat glanced at her, arching an eyebrow. "Me? What, you think I'm fucked in the head or something?" He asked, a hint of defiance in his tone.

"I didn't mean it like that, Gat." She paused, eyeing him with concern. She barely spied the client trying very poorly to look as casual as he could beside a nearby sign. She pulled up, unlocking the door so the scrawny frat boy could settle into the back-seat, before whizzing away, out of site from the gaggle of paparazzi closing in on their tail.

The Boss smiled at Gat. "Do your thing," She said, her words were like music to his ears. Like he even needed to be told. Gat responded instantly, leaning out the window with his rifle, and blaring away at their pursuers with wild abandon.

After spending the entire evening speeding all over Stilwater, escorting up to five ho's and their clientèle, both of them were quite satisfied. Gat was beaming as they sat in the SUV, polishing his rifle, the Boss idly counting the cast they'd earned. The Boss was becoming impatient as she checked the car's digital clock, which told her it was fast approaching 2am. They were about to do one last run for the evening, specifically for a "high class courtesan" according to Sykes, awaiting under the cover of a streetlamp outside the strip joint, Technically Legal.

As Gat toyed with the scope on his rifle, his buzz fading, he turned to the Boss, eyes narrowed. "So what did you mean by that?" He asked.

The Boss' eyes did not budge as she continued flicking through the cash. "Hmm?"

"Don't fuck with me, Boss. You said there was something wrong with me."

The Boss gulped, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. "I never said that." She replied, voice low. "I just..." She couldn't say it. Couldn't bring herself to admit how worried she was; she couldn't remember ever feeling so attached or concerned for another human being. The intensity of these foreign feelings frightened her. She could feel frustration bristling inside her.

She turned sharply in her seat, looking him dead in the face and said "Y'know what? Fuck this. I don't gotta explain shit to you." She snapped, slumping back into her seat. It'd suddenly occurred to how much she sounded like Julius, and it disgusted her.

A few seconds passed, and she began to wonder if maybe she'd overreacted. Considering she was still barely a teenager, it was fair to assume that she was still enduring the trials of puberty. Although at the same time, _she_ was the leader of the Saints, not Gat. What use would having feelings develop between lieutenants? She recalled the weakness that Jessica had been to Maero. Not that Gat couldn't handle himself. Still, surely there would be no benefit to pursue something so... intimate. Especially after what had happened to Aisha. She gulped yet again, quenching her drying throat. Intimate? With Gat? She gave him a sidelong glance, checking him out. Physically, he wasn't exactly her type, too short and burly for her tastes. That and his lack of fashion style was quite amusing. Regardless, he made up for it in his brutality, and his loyalty. Yes, that would be enough for the Boss to feel comfortable. It would be more than enough to just remain good business friends. At least, it should have been.

Normally Gat would feel resentful for being shown up by someone else. For sure, if the Boss had tried that when they first met, he would've happily kicked the shit out of them. Part of him wondered if maybe he'd gone soft, or maybe he just didn't see the point in arguing with one of the few people he trusted. Julius was dead, Dex missing, Troy up to his tits in police bullshit, and Eesh... Even Eesh. He shook himself out of it. He really needed to stop over-thinking, especially where Aisha was concerned. He _really_ didn't want others to think that he'd gone soft, either. It'd be the end of his career with the Saints if they found out. He was sure of it; no one would want a pussy like that around, no matter how badass they used to be. He would not drop his flags like Ben King had done. He resolved to put her out of his mind, if he could. Today had been hard, having to dig up those fresh wounds when he went to visit Tina, but from now on, he would dedicate himself to the one thing he had left. His beloved job as second in command of the Saints.

Both of their attentions were pricked by the familiar clicking of heels on the sidewalk. The Boss leaned out the window, narrowing her eyes at the tall, tanned, raven-haired beauty that swayed towards the car with all the confidence of a supermodel. Her dark smoldering eyes met Gat's her lips pursed, seductively eyeing him. Then the woman cast a glance at the Boss and her expression went cold. Sadly, the Boss wasn't patient enough to tolerate the minor hostility.

"You the ho?" She asked.

The woman blanched, her diamond studded hoops glinting in the glow of the streetlamp."_I _am worth far more than those pathetic, braindead sluts, so desperate they are, that they'll advertise on the sides of milk cartons." The woman retorted bitterly. The Boss was hardly amused; she certainly did not appreciate slut shaming. Gat sucked at his teeth, attempting to stifle a laugh, before the Boss nudged him viciously in the ribs.

"Alright then. You're a _sophisticated _ho. Whatever. Now get in the fucking car." She snapped. The ho in question scowled back, grimacing as she tugged open the car door. The Boss was tempted to lock the doors, drive off whilst the how was clinging to the handle, and smash her into the nearest lamppost, however decided against it. She was mildly curious if this ho really was as good as Sykes claimed – hopefully the amount of money she'd make in one session would be proof of that.

The client was only a few blocks away, after taking some sharp backroad turns. The scrawny bloke dressed in a dark leather duster over a pinstriped suit, dashed into the backseat with the ho. Due to the ridiculous hour, very few paparazzi were braving the streets around Prawn Court, and the few that were had grown reckless in their exhausted state, often ploughing into street corners. Dodging and outwitting them was easy, so much so that Gat barely even needed to bother shooting, much to his disappointment. The atmosphere was relatively calm for the most part, occasionally punctuated by the odd moan or seductive slur. The Boss failed to see how it was any different than the truck loads of girls she'd escorted before, however didn't see the point in belaboring her point to the ho. Gat yawned, settling into his seat, legs splayed.

As they proceeded to drive down the long stretch of road, the Boss couldn't help but notice something out of the corner of her eye. She barely paid it more than a fleeting glance, flushing a bright shade of red as she noticed the bulge in Gat's pants. She wondered if he even noticed, or if maybe he was falling asleep and it just... happened. With the suggestive sounds filtering from the backseat, it was no coincidence but still... The Boss recalled how he'd jokingly boasted about having an eight inch cock when they'd first met. She was hardly fazed by it – she'd seen her fair share of naked people. She was curious though; what could he be thinking about?

Gat let out a low growl in his throat, shifting in his seat, as he breathed the name, "Eesh." The Boss felt her heart clench, and immediately began to fill with dread, directed towards herself. Though why, she wasn't exactly sure. She felt sorry for Gat. Helpless, wanting to make him happy after all that had happened. But nothing she could do would be able to bring Aisha back. The Boss hated feeling powerless like this. It reminded her too much of her life before joining the Saints. A life she was determined to lie to rest, and never share with anyone, not even Gat.

She sighed and glanced over at him. It became pretty clear that the ho and her client were about to reach a climax, so the Boss began circling back to Technically Legal, parking outside the club. As the car swayed back and forth quite rapidly, the ho screaming out faked orgasms, the Boss sighed and began tiredly counting the money. Gat snorted, blinking a few times until he was fully awake.

"Getting tired, old man?" Teased the Boss giving him a sidelong glance.

He grunted then sat up, laying his rifle across his lap in an attempt to hide his raging hard on. He had barely slept for three days, so it wasn't a shock that he was getting out of shape. He wiped his eyes with his palms, grimacing as he tried to wipe the painful images of a naked Eesh from his mind. Everytime he closed his eyes, he could see her, remember what it felt like to lie next to her, embraced in her warmth. The memories often haunted him during sleep. He was thankful that this time, he hadn't fallen asleep long enough for the rest of the harsher memories to brew up.

The satisfied client stumbled out of the car, a dopey grin plastered on his face, whilst the disgruntled ho exited, smoking a cigarette. She dumped a handful of fifties onto Gat's lap, then traced her plastic talons across his cheek and under his jaw.

She preened, pursing her dark luscious lips. "All for you, big boy. Thanks for looking after me. Maybe we should get to know each other some more." She purred, licking her lip suggestively. The Boss felt a prickle of jealously, more so that the ho wasn't acknowledging her presence and was verbally sucking Gat's dick, when all he'd done was nap and acquire a boner. Yet, for the sake of business she remained polite, amusing herself with the thought of Gat prematurely cumming in his pants.

Gat chuckled. "Yeah, maybe you should swing by the crib and give the rest of our girls a hand. The boys are always in need of lapdances."

The ho's smiled faltered for a brief moment. "Right. And next you'll be asking me to gyrate on one of those filthy polls with the rest of those greasy harlots."

Both Gat and the Boss replied with a resounding, "Fuck yeah!"

The ho gaped then flounced off.

Gat shrugged. "Guess she's not a fan of pole-riding." He added, smirking.

The Boss smiled. "Look, man. I'm sorry for what I said earlier." Gat gave her a strange look.

"Hey, don't sweat it." He replied.

The Boss gulped. "I didn't mean to call you fucked in the head, or anything."

She paused then shifted in her seat to face him.

"D'you ever think about what we're gunna do with this money?" She asked, snatching up the bundles from Gat's lap. He eyed the notes, arching an eyebrow.

He shrugged. "More ammo?"

"Even if we killed every motherfucker in this town, we'd still have a couple hundred thousand left over." There was another pause, before Gat spoke up again.

"What about Dex?" He asked.

The Boss tilted her head, wrinkling her nose. "Yeah, maybe. If we knew where the fuck he went."

"That's my point. Maybe if we put more money into that, we'd get some results." The Boss considered this, before Gat added. "Besides, I'm getting sick of waiting around to get shit done."

The Boss smiled. "Yeah. I feel ya, brother." Their eyes meant, hers filled with warmth, before glancing away. She keyed the ignition then set about driving him back to the Mission house. She would need to pump Pierce and Shaundi for new information on that sneaky little bastard, Dex.


	5. Chapter 5

In the darkness of the stank motel room, Dex felt claustrophobic. The dim lighting twitched as the rumble of the neighbouring railroad caused the building to vibrate. He clutched a bottle of tequila, taking tentative sips. He was sat on the edge of the bed, legs splayed as he stared at his reflection in the dark, cracked tv screen. It was hard to believe that a little over five years had passed since he'd seen that pesky little impish girl. She didn't deserve to be a leader; she was nothing like him. Now with Vogel dead, there were no obstacles left for that psychotic bitch and her raving attackdog, Gat to take over Ultor. A company that _he'd_ safeguard, one that _he'd_ spent half a decade developing with Vogel. Although, Dex had never liked being second best, not even to Julius. And even now, the Saints seemed to be taunting him. He narrowed his eyes at the pathetic, embittered little man that stared back at him. He could feel his blood boil just thinking about them, and how they'd forced him into hiding. He had no doubt what the bitch would do if he ever saw her again. The Saints had taken everything away from him, and he was not prepared to let them get away with stealing Ultor from him.

His frustration continued to writhe within him, briefly disturbed when he heard the creak of pipes coming from the motel bathroom. He smirked, rising from the bed and staggered over to the door, peaking through the crack. The dank smell of musk and rot filled his nostrils, occasionally pierced by the smell of soap. A short young girl had her back to him, her olive-toned skin glistened, water rolling down her bony hips, down the curve of her legs. Her short bleached blonde hair clung to her, as she began wrapping the towl around her.

Without taking his gaze off of his sister, he placed the glass upon the vermin-infested dresser, then barged into the bathroom. The girl jumped, then pivoted. He smiled. The towel barely reached below her waist. She bowed her head then tried to move past him, yet he blocked her exit. She glanced up at him, fear in her eyes.

"Dex?" She whispered. Her lips had suddenly gone dry, her skin shivering in revolt with the way he looked at her. He gripped her wrist then held it up. Clutched in her hand was her cell phone. He tightened his grip in anger.

"I thought I told you, Beth." He warned, voice low with a menacing edge to it. "We don't want to bring silly little devices like that." His sister bowed her head again, tears filling her eyes.

"I just don't understand why, though." She whimpered. "I mean, what if Rachel calls? Or Charlie." At the mention of Beth's wannabe crush, Dex felt his fist clench and had to prevent himself from slapping some sense into her.

"I told you." He chastised. "I wanted _us_ to spend some family time together."

Beth wrinkled her nose and nodded in acceptance. He let go of her hand then entangled his fingers in her damp hair, smiling at her to try and reassure her. It didn't work.

"Did you tell mom where we were going? Why couldn't she come?" She asked.

Dex felt his lip twitch, trying to keep his forced smile plastered on. "She has plans for the summer," He lied, lightly brushing his fingers down her arm. Her skin crawled. He then held out his palm.

"Don't worry. I'll hold onto it for now. Just in case." He said, voice sickeningly syrupy sweet. Beth was unsure, but figured that there could be no harm. She often had the tendency to leave things behind in motels anyway. He smiled, then turned and walked out of the bathroom.

He plucked up his bottle, checking that the door was locked for the tenth time that evening. He began pacing for awhile, then came to a halt outside of the open window. The misty sky and rolling sand dunes would have been picturesque if he weren't staying in this shithole. He could see the distant headlights of a train advancing and was glad for it. He pulled the window shut, sealing the curtains.

Suddenly the lights switched on, and he spun to see Beth hovering on the opposite end of the room, dressed in her pink bunny nightie. She was rummaging through the luggage and frowning. Dex sprawled across the bed, his mind racing, as he silently pondered his next move. Beth sighed as she dug deeper through the luggage, pulling out cloths as she went. Dex growled and rolled his eyes.

"What're you looking for?" He barked. Startled, Beth paused.

"Sorry." She squeaked. "I was just looking for the sleeping bags. You packed one, right?"

Dex smiled to himself, then shook his head, taking a drink. "No? Why would I need to? There wasn't enough room, anyway."

Beth took a deep breath and gulped. "Well... I don't feel comfortable sharing a bed with you."

Dex chuckled. "Why? We used to do it all the time when we were kids."

She cringed. "Yeah, but... It was different then."

Dex laughed harder. "You're silly. There's nothing different about it at all." He petted the bedspread suggestively, eyeing her. Beth looked away, feeling foolish to have even brought it up.

Some hours later, the sun began to rise, bathing the motel in an orange glow. Beth was curled up on the opposite end of the bed, whilst Dex lay half asleep. Much to his surprise, he awoke to the sound of Beth's phone ringing. He quickly sat up and answered it, finding a familiar Spanish voice growling a string of insults. Dex's bi-lingual skills were limited, picking out the odd word, as the speaker rushed on; a stream of vague threats.

Dex attempted to hush the speaker, as he sat up, casting a weary glance at his sister. "There was a minor delay in the shipment. I promise you, it'll arrive-"

He was cut off by another voice, much deeper than the first. "We know what happened, Senor. Our leader is not happy."

Dex's throat felt parched, as the colour drained from his face. _Shit_. "Trust me, neither am I. If your gracious leader would be willing to give me some more time, I can-"

He was cut off again by the same menacing voice. "There is no excuse, Senor. The weapons were promised, and you did not uphold your end of the bargain. Our leader does not like it when people steal from Serpiente de Cascabel."

Dex sighed. "Listen, I can still get you the goods. I'm sure I can work something out with your leader, a way to make us both happy. I guarantee that within a few days, we'll both be laughing about this minor setback."

The gentleman on the other end, let out a hearty chuckle then added. "We shall. But not you." It was at this point that a grenade was launched through the motel window.

Beth bolted upright at the sound of shattered glass, whilst Dex back-pedalled across the bed. As he did so, he yanked her out from beneath the covers. He quickly grabbed the pistol from the dresser, then shot the lock off. Just as he and Beth tumbled into the hallway, the grenade went off, filling the motel room with a bright light and smoke. Beth coughed and spluttered from beneath him, her entire left arm felt like it'd been shattered from the sudden force, as they struggled to their feet. Without hesitation Dex sprinted to the end of the corridor, where he barged through the fire exit. His body was fuelled with adrenalin, as he hefted the pistol and easily took out the three stragglers as they crouched, edging further towards the west side of the motel. In the distant, he could barely make out another triad, as they staggered across the sand dunes, about to cross the railroad that separated the motel from the rest of the desert.

His sister began hyperventilating, clasping at his shoulder, her head darting back and forth like an anxious magpie. Dex kept his eyes fixed on the last three targets, swiftly entering a new clip as he waited. He threw his car keys at Beth and breathily ordered her to bring the car around. She made some mild protest about not being a qualified driver and weakly blurted out how she thought her arm was broken.

Dex silenced these claims with a shove against the building, caressed her cheek with his gun, a mad feral look in his eyes, and teeth gritted, he said. "You can either get the car, or you can shoot these people. Your choice." Either way, it was enough to pacify her. She gulped hard and nodded before sprinting off to the parking lot where their little Zimos sat amongst the shadow of the motel.

She began tugging at the rusted handle, panic surging through her when it refused to budge. She cursed herself, wanting to scream out to her brother, yet fear choked off her cries. She didn't have long to ponder her quandrary as another set of silhouettes emerged from the darkness. The sounds of feral barking shocked both Beth and Dex. The latter paused from his shooting to see a gaggle of mangy rottweilers making a beeline towards his sister. So what? He thought. They were just dogs. Beth knew how to handle animals, being a helper at an animal shelter. Surely, she could at least hold them off whilst he took out the last three gang members.

As the dogs advanced, leaping with unnatural strength, the ones closest taking nips at Beth, reality was beginning to sink in for the naïve little girl. Someone was after her brother. She didn't know what they wanted from her, although it seemed clear what lengths they were willing to go to ensure it. And so far, it seemed like death was what they intended. She snapped out of her panic long enough, giving one last agonizing tug of the car door, swinging herself in. The a pair of dogs jammed their yapping, snarling mouths through the door, snapping at her legs. Beth screamed, feebly trying to kick them out as she squirmed in the seat. She could feel sticky warmth seeping out through a nasty gash in her sleeve, staining the upholstery. She swallowed hard, the world fading around her. Why had she gotten involved with her brother? Why had she let herself trust him?

The rumble of the train mounted, as Dex paused his haphazard shooting. Now that his adrenalin was wearing off, his shots were becoming more wild and unpredictable. His grip loose and hands shaking, he cursed himself for being so careless and caught so unprepared. He was willing to gamble his own life, as he took cover behind the motel, finding a ring of dogs surrounding his car, his sister writhing inside, her screams barely audible. He glanced back and forth between Beth and his pursuers, eyes lingering as the gang members began to race directly into the path of the live rails. He turned back, satisfied as the passing train shook the building, and the faint crunch of bone could be heard above the reverie of barking attack dogs.

When he turned back he found his sister swamped. He should of known better; that bringing her would only be a hindrance. Of course, the Serpiente de Cascabel must've done their homework on him and what they would have assumed would be his key weakness. He almost wanted to growl at them for being so foolish. He had never liked these barbaric reckless plans, or the people whom orchestrated them. He was far better than that. He fired haphazardly at the dogs, dispersing them, giving him a shot as he sprinted to the car and lept into the driver's seat. He keyed the ignition, swerving the car out of the parking lot, as the rusty beast began sprinting down the highway.

It was many hours later, once night had fully engulfed the Chihuahuan desert, before he began to calm, relaxing his grip on the wheel. He dared a peek at his little sister, her skin pale from the blood loss. Her head rested against the cool window, staring outward, one could easily think she was sleeping, yet Dex caught the odd incoherent mumble from her trembling lips. He felt a deep-rooted anger rise up from the pit of his stomach. How dare they harm her. He was determined to earn his revenge, but first, he would need to find a hospital for his sister, perhaps acquire her a fake ID, and then part ways. It was time for him to stick with plan B. He gripped the steering wheel with renewed vigor, tossing Beth's phone out the side of the window as he sped further south, unaware that the foxy leader of the Serpiente de Cascabel had other plans.

Unbeknownst to him, as his car sped away that night, the owner of the motel lifted his trucker cap, before pressing his bulky phone up against his bushy face; "Jackson's on the move."


	6. Chapter 6

The Boss writhed beneath her covers. Her head ached as a collage of memories and old fears blurred together, flitting across her mind in rapid succession. The first image was of a grey hospital corridor, with herself at age four, clutching a small box with a bow atop it, helplessly wandering further down. Her younger self noticed she was being chased by a silhouetted cop. The place was silent except for the rapid boom of his feet on the linoleum floors. Her heart lurched. As the figure loomed over her, the Boss cowered, whimpering. The figure raised his nightstick to strike, when the Boss pulled her pistol on him, and squeezed the trigger. The figure collapsed like a domino. The box in her hand dissipated, as she regained her composure.

When she rose, she'd aged a little, and appeared to be herself at age eight. She gulped, glancing at the unmarked door in front of her. She grinned, knowing that her best friend lie behind that door. Even if he was slowly dying, she could at least cheer him up. He'd like his present; the pistol.

She pushed open the door. "Gat!" She cried, bursting with excitement, but the room was empty. The crisp white sheets of the bed were bare, seemingly untouched. No. He couldn't be gone. He wasn't meant to die! He couldn't die! She was haunted by the sound of those beeping machines, mocking her.

She fell to her knees, tears springing to her eyes. She felt weak, like a puppet who's strings had been cut. She opened her mouth to wail, but nothing came out. Her screams were drowned out from the heady vacuum of the room. Her chest constricted, as another figure emerged from behind the door. Her eyes widened. Lin. Then from the far corners of the room, two more figures appeared. Aisha. Carlos. The three of them approached her, eyes brimming with untold betrayal. They wanted revenge. It was all her fault. She would pay. She would know their pain. She would join their fate.

The Boss' eyes flung open, as she let out a gargled, "No!" She sat up, breaking through the tangle of bedsheets. Her heart was racing, hair clinging to her sweat-drenched skin. Her body shivered as she recovered. _Shit_, she thought. _Maybe I'm the one going nuts_. She threw off the covers and shakily poured herself a glass of water. She began pacing, taking the odd sip every other turn. It took her awhile to calm herself. These night terrors had been getting worse. She was used to the silhouette people; she saw them all the time in her dreams. Still, the feeling of discomfort that they brought had not lessened. She clutched her glass tighter. The fear of losing Gat was palpable; so strong it was, that she found herself calling him to make sure he was in fact, alive. She cast a glance at the digital clock on her nightstand. 8:20pm. She'd been asleep all day, after the rather prolonged escort.

Before Gat could say a word, the Boss barked down the phone; "Gat? Gat!" The panic in her voice was alarming to them both.

"Woah, woah Boss. I heard ya the first time. What's up?" Merely hearing his voice was enough to steady her frantic heartbeat.

She sighed, expelling all the fear and hysteria that'd been rising inside her. "I need a drink." She declared.

Within fifteen minutes, the pair of them were barging into The Merhman bar in Harrowgate. A small, crowded rustic bar with soft ambience. The Boss recalled gracing this bar a few times. Pierce and Shaundi were on their way, coming in from opposite ends of the Boss greedily chugged down her third beer, whilst they waited.

Gat quirked an eyebrow at her. "So what the fuck happened?" He asked.

The Boss grimaced, swallowing her last mouthful, before shaking her head. "Nothing important, alright." She reassured; more to herself than him.

"I've been thinking about what you said," she added softly. The Boss glanced at him, blue eyes briefly searching his. His interest was peaked, snapped to attention. He almost reminded her of that fairytale she read when she was a kid. The one about the little tin soldier. She felt a glimmer of pride. She was glad she had friends as loyal as him.

She sighed then continued. "What you said about keeping busy. You're right. I can't stand this waiting around anymore than you do." His expression remain impassive for a moment, yet there was a familiar glint in his eyes. He was willing to do whatever it took to uphold the name and reputation of the Saints. Just like he had been since day one. It was a relief to see that faint glimmer of hope return. It warmed her heart.

He nodded in affirmation. "Damn right. So what's the plan?"

The Boss dug out her cell phone and planted it between them on the counter. "Our best hope is that there's someone at Ultor that we can dig some information out of." The Boss gulped, looking sullen.

She sighed. "I feel like a right tit, though. Killing everyone that ever associated with Dex has only narrowed our chances." She grumbled, clasping her hands together and resting her chin atop them.

Gat tipped back his beer, then added "Yo, what about Shaundi? Ain't she our golden lil hacker?"

The Boss considered this briefly then shook her head."No worries. I've already got a guy working the security cams at the airport for us."

Gat nearly choked on his beer. "Who? Pierce?"

The Boss cut Gat a sharp look."Does it really matter who?" The Boss glanced around at the bustling patrons. There was no way she'd let slip that she and the Chief of Police were in cahoots.

"All that matters is that they can get us the intel." She added in a hushed tone. She was certain that Gat already had his suspicions about Troy anyway, but there would be no good in making that public knowledge.

"Of course, it wouldn't hurt if we got more of our crew out, scouting for info." She added.

After a brief pause, The Boss turned to Gat, a questioning look on her face. "What do you have against him, anyway?" She asked.

Gat narrowed his eyes, taking another gulp of beer. "Eh? Who?" He slurred.

"Pierce." She snapped. "You guys have never exactly been on good terms."

Gat shrugged. "I'm sure he's a good kid. He just reminds me a lot of that pussy, Dex." He growled, fist clenching his bottle.

The Boss shook her head. "I hear ya," she sighed. "Still, it ain't right to go judging the kid like that. It ain't fair."

Gat snorted. "Maybe. Maybe not." He paused then glanced back at the Boss. "But then there's always his neverending bitching."

The Boss stifled a laugh. "C'mon, he ain't that bad." She grinned and nudged him. "He's only doin' it because he loves us."

Gat snorted. "Bite me." He shook his head, but he couldn't hide his smile.

The Boss then added, "I think we should put Pierce in charge. Y'know, of the scouts."

Gat pursed his lips and tilted his head. "Why?"

"Why not? He knows how to lead. He knows how to handle himself. And he's got a helluva a lot of drive."

"So does Shaundi." Gat pointed out.

"She does." The Boss nodded, eyes speculative as she mulled it over, briefly.

"And she's good at getting us our info." Gat added.

"Yeah," said the Boss. "By fucking. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying she isn't good. But Pierce is quicker. And besides, we need Shaundi to keep an eye on the Loa Dust market."

"Wasn't Pierce handling that?" He asked.

"Supposedly. But it was Shaundi's idea, ergo, her responsibility," The Boss shrugged. "Besides, as much as I love that girl, I just wanna make sure that she doesn't go soft on us." She said, smiling meekly. Gat's eyes hardened; the issue struck a little too close to home for him. He cleared his throat, taking another long pull on his beer, before glancing around the bar, waiting to see if the others had arrived.

The Boss could feel the harmless, mellowing buzz from the beer, humming through her veins, drowning out her earlier anxiety. She wasn't quite drunk yet, as evident by her restless thoughts. Her mind still racing, her heart burning for revenge on Dex for stabbing them in the back. She could feel that fiery determination that had swamped her for months rising again, and she was glad for it. It was in those moments, where red mist settled, and everything else faded into insignificance, wherein she felt unstoppable; the Saints were unstoppable.

Her mood brightened when she saw Pierce manoeuvring through the rowdy pub crawlers followed by a flustered Shaundi. Pierce sidled up to the bar, his smile a little forced as he lay his forearms across the counter. "You called, Boss?" He asked, glancing over at Shaundi, whom seemed occupied with chatting enthusiastically to one of the patrons. He rolled his eyes.

The Boss' expression remained stern, giving a firm nod. "I'm through with fucking around, Pierce." She replied. "What we got with Ultor is fine and dandy. For now. That still doesn't change the fact that Dex got to walk away scott-free. I intend to change that." She paused, examining his face; he seemed distracted, which was unusual for him.

He gave a small nod, cracking a smile. "Hell yeah. No one walks away from the Saints after pulling shit like that." The Boss returned his smile; it was comforting to know that her crew were still loyal, if not as eager, it seemed. She hoped that Pierce was not becoming disillusioned, for fear of him betraying her like Dex had. At least, she hoped that for his sake.

Meanwhile, as Shaundi swayed into the bar, she found herself distracted by a familiar face.

"Tom?" She said, cocking a brow at the well-groomed gent, huddled in a booth with a bunch of drunks in business suits. Tom seemed uncomfortable and out of place amongst them.

He glanced up at her and beamed. "Oh hey. Shaundi, right?"

"Yeah. Hey, did you get that job?"

His grin grew as he nodded over to the drunks sharing his booth. "Sure did. The guys wanted to celebrate so..." He shrugged, letting out a small chuckle "Looks like I'm payin'." His face sobered. "And driving." He grimaced, cursing under his breathe.

Shaundi's smile faltered as a brief memory of Veteran Child shuddered through her. "You haven't been following me, have you?" She asked.

Tom nearly choked on his root beer. "Of course not! Besides, I thought you lived on the other side of town." He replied. He glanced away, before rising to his feet, chairs squeaking beneath him. Shaundi could feel a warm flush rising to her cheeks. She opened her mouth to reply but was quickly cut off by the Boss yelling;

"Oi, Shaundi!" Before extravagantly waving her over.

When she glanced back, he grinned. "Nice to see you again." He said, but was drowned out over the din. He turned and left without another word.

The Boss had a grim look in her eyes as she waited for Shaundi to settle at the bar. She liked Shaundi, for sure. However she was rather irked by Shaundi's slapdash approach to drug manufacturing as of late. Particularly when the Loa Dust was _her_ idea and ergo _her_ responsibility. Not to mention her expertise made her adequate for the job, more so than Pierce. Tobias was certainly not one to make unhappy when it came to unexpectedly late shipments. That and she was sick of Pierce's bitching about it.

A few bats of her eyelashes later, and the waiter was pouring Shaundi and the Boss a line of shots.

Shaundi grinned. "Tennessee Hookers. Man, I love pickle juice." Besides her, Pierce coughed and made some vague mutterings about how he was _sure_ that she loved pickles, in general. Shaundi either didn't hear, or didn't care enough to dignify him with a response. The pair of them tossed back their shots, the Boss licking her lips before pressing on.

"Look, Shaundi. I'm gunna lay it down straight with you. Pierce and his boys are gunna head on over to Ultor and see what they can dig up on Dex's whereabouts."

Pierce nearly choked on his beer. "_Me_?" He stared at the Boss for awhile. She was actually going to let him do something? Of all the times in the world, it would have to be right when his mother may have been recovering.

The Boss eyed him for a moment. "Why, is there a problem?" Pierce opened his mouth to reply, but then decided against it.

He shook his head. "Nah, not at all, Boss." He glanced away, casually sipping at his beer.

The Boss pursed her lips then returned to Shaundi. "Anyway, the point is, we're gunna need some cash to help us do that. And our best bet'd be-"

"Our business contacts?" Shaundi suggested.

The Boss narrowed her eyes. "The Loa Dust, hon." She replied in a low whisper, casting careful glances at the other patrons. "I don't trust other businesses, and besides, the real money is from the dust market."

Shaundi nodded, oblivious to the sounds of a brawl going on behind her. She met the Boss' unflinching gaze. "I'm on it."

The Boss smiled. She trusted that Shaundi was more than capable. She knew how to handle people, either with her words, or the end of her shotgun barrel. Although most importantly, she knew all about handling the product itself, making her the ideal person. The Boss was glad that she wasn't afraid to step up; at least she wasn't as edgy about the plan as Pierce.

Gat staggered over, dismissively wiping some stranger's blood from his knuckles.

Pierce backed away from him. "Dude, can't you go anywhere without starting a fight?"

Shaundi grinned. "You make him sound like Russel Crowe."

Pierce titled his head, whilst the Boss and Gat exchanged looks. Gat shrugged, before snagging Pierce's beer and taking a gulp.

Shaundi arched an eyebrow. "Y'know? 'Fightin' 'round the world?' From the South Park episode?" She asked, hopefully glancing between the three of them.

Pierce grinned. "Ooh yeah. You're right." He chuckled, despite Gat's hardened gaze pinned on him.

"The hell is that?" Gat asked, glancing at the Boss, whom could only shrug in response.

"Fuck if I know. Don't ask me; I was in a coma for five years." Gat took one last pull on his beer then slammed it against the bar.

"You bitches make me feel old." He grumbled, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Shaundi smiled and playfully nudged his shoulder.

The Boss reached over to check the time on her phone, when some drunk asshole sidled up to her, nudging her elbow as he repositioned a bottle of vodka against his lips – most of which dripped down his harlequin purple jersey.

"Yo, Danny boy!" Pierce barked, beaming a smile at the drunk.

The Boss snorted, turning her attention away from the kid, when Dan grabbed her arm, a grin spreading across his face.

"Hey, Boss." He slurred.

Pierce, feeling ignored, shrugged and began animatedly discussing the Loa Dust with Shaundi.

Dan continued; "Dunno why you're here... Tssss. Thought you an' Gat'd be getting' hot an' heavy in the back." He giggled to himself for a brief few seconds. Gat watched with stern eyes, dismounting from the bar, just as the Boss uppercut Dan. Her fist crunched against brittle bone, blood spurting from his nose as he flew backwards off his seat. Her eyes narrowed before she pivoted and swept out of the bar, the rest of her Lieutenants following in tow.

Her head held high, as Gat caught up with her. "The hell you do that for?" He hissed.

"I don't care what colours he's flying – no one talks shit about my friends like that." She growled, before halting. She glared at the bar. She produced a grenade from beneath her chequered flannel jacket. She pulled the ring before tossing it into the gaping maw of the bar. Gat arched an eyebrow; it was rare to see the Boss so defensive about something so stupid. The kid was just drunk, probably just a frisky little scamp, blurting out the first bit of bullshit that came to mind. Maybe it was just hard to believe that this was the same chick that'd called him up about an hour ago, terrified. The same scrawny little bitch that'd sprung up from the slums of Stilwater half a decade ago. As the four Saints walked off to their respective cars, the Merhman's windows blasted outward, spraying glass across the street, screams and smoke filling the cool night air.

Pierce grinned to himself; "Boom goes the dynamite."


	7. Chapter 7

The following morning Pierce awoke with a mild hangover. He winced as he sat up from one of the plush white couches – he'd prematurely crashed out at the main Saints Hideout, in the Bavogian Plaza. His blurry mind became aware of the loud heavy metal music that blared from the speakers, embedded on either end of the bar, that stood on the opposite side of the room. His eyes widened as he saw Shaundi saunter across the bar, in a bright salmon colored tank and pink panties. He quickly examined himself, making sure he still had his cloths on – other than being a little crumpled, they seemed fine. Anxious, he scanned the room around him. Other than a few clusters of broken bottles and a discarded pizza box, there didn't seem to be anyone else here. He peered at Shaundi as she perched on her elbows at the bar, her dreads sticking out at odd angles, as she flicked through her phone.

He swallowed, tongue feeling thick and dry in his mouth. "Hey, girl." He croaked, waving his hand at her. Shaundi barely nodded her head in acknowledgement.

Pierce swung his legs off the couch, bolting upright. "Woah, hey, we didn't do anything last night, did we?" He asked, cautious. Shaundi's eyes lit up as she fixed her eyes on him.

She let out a choked laugh."What? Oh come on, Pierce. We weren't that drunk." She smiled to herself, before taking a gulp of tequila from one of the many bottles stocked at the bar. Something about her knowing smile made him uneasy.

"Soo, is that a yes or a no?" He asked. She giggled softly, before shaking her head.

"I'm not that desperate, y'know." She paused, her lips twitched as her grin grew. "Although, if you're _really_ that keen, we can–"

It was at this point that Pierce lept from the couch and strode up the stairs, calling over his shoulder: "Nevermind, I'm going, I'm going!"

She chuckled as she watched him leave. She pursed her lips in thought; would the Boss really tolerate her lieutenants fucking each other?

Not that it mattered – Pierce was a sweet guy an' all, but she didn't feel right fucking him. She assumed it was because they worked so closely, and it'd just be weird, with all that she _did_ know about him. Besides, the Boss' actions from the previous night still rang clear in her mind, even if her memory was a little hazy. And then of course, there was always what had happened between Gat and his girlfriend... Shaundi couldn't imagine losing someone she was close with, however to her eye, Gat seemed no different than how he was before she was murdered – a badass motherfucker.

Meanwhile, Pierce welcomed the cool blast of winds that rattled through the rundown streets of Shivington. He passed under one of the many overhead motorways, his hands buried deep in his tracksuit pockets. He wrinkled his nose, pausing to glance at his reflection in a nearby puddle, a basketball tucked under his arm. The breeze ruffled against his cloths, discarded newspapers brushing against him. But his mind was elsewhere, drawn to a simpler time, when he and his sister had frolicked in patches of freshly racked autumn leaves at their local park. He felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips from the memory – he remembered how his mother had gone berserk after they'd been chased by some angry redneck groundskeeper. He would've never thought how he'd come to treasure the simplest things she had done for her children – like the inviting smell of detergent, or the comforting warmth of her fabulous curry dishes. These memories were so bittersweet, and so strong, that he swore he could envision them perfectly, as if it hadn't been years since he'd heard her laugh, felt her embrace, or seen the bright alertness in her eyes, that came with being a single suburban mother.

He glanced up at the old worn basketball court, idly kicking empty cans off the cracked asphalt. He bent his knees, loosening up his muscles, as he began to dribble the ball. He remembered participating in a wide variety of sports. Basketball, hockey, baseball, snooker, dodge-ball, darts... Hell, he even helped train the girl's volleyball team for some charity sponsor shit. He couldn't even remember what the money had been raising awareness for – at the time, he'd been more interested in the girl's chests than their actual tactics. As Shaundi would say, those were "good times."

Once the heat returned to his numb fingers, he picked up the pace, and began practicing some basic tricks and other maneuvers that a mish-mash of would-be stepdads had taught him over the years. Perhaps it was their attempt at bounding with him. He never really cared – they would never stick around long enough anyway. His mother was a surprisingly plucky woman, and would not settle for less than the very best, it seemed. Although, Pierce figured that she was just very headstrong. Maybe that was a turn off to most guys. Pierce shrugged it off, before performing an impressive slam dunk. He grinned up, catching the ball before it could run out of bounce. He pivoted. He froze.

He didn't know what to say. His lips trembled, as a rush of feelings flooded him within a matter of seconds. Shame. Outrage. Bitterness. Pity. Confusion. Relief. He gulped, wetting his lips, before tucking the ball under his arm. He cast his eyes down at the woman that stood on the opposite end of the court, a shiny black SUV parked behind her. He was surprised he hadn't heard her, but then again, he'd been pretty occupied.

"Hey," She said, her voice catching a little as she sighed heavily. She had bright red hair, combed into a neat shoulder-length bob. Short and efficient. Just like his sister, he figured. He nodded for her to come over. He turned back towards the net, listening as the click-clack of her heels sounded against the uneven terrain.

She sidled up alongside him. "I guess you got the news, huh?" She asked.

Pierce grimaced. _Yeah, the news that you fucked off to New Mexico, without so much as a word to go fuck your latest squee_, he thought bitterly. He could sense why she was here – it was to be expected, after all. Although he wasn't certain why; his sister had delightfully ignored their mother's condition these past three years. He assumed she just didn't care enough about her family. Whilst Pierce had struggled back home, trying to find anyway he could keep paying for his mother's medical bills, draining all of his resources, completely screwing up his future... To say he resented his sister would be an understatement. Instead, all he could do was nod.

He thumped the ball against the asphalt, softly bouncing it.

His sister, Lexi, squashed her rising nerves and pressed forward. "I came as soon as I heard. Andy sends his best wishes." Pierce had to suppress a groan.

He sighed. "That's just great," he replied, dispassionately.

She glanced at him, her bright green eyes focused on him, studying him. "Y'know, you don't have to pretend to like him." She teased.

"Never said I did." He replied, as he continued to dribble the ball on the spot, eyes drawn to the rusted steel basketball hoop overhead.

"Pierce... Look. I'm not proud of what happened. And now that I've seen what's happened to you–"

He slammed the ball down, and spun to face Lexi, whom snapped to attention, her eyes wide and idly watching the ball bounce a little way across the court – anything to avoid looking her distraught brother in the eye.

"What _happened_ to me?" He snapped, glaring at her. "Bitch, you are in no position to judge me. _I_ did what _I_ had to do for _my_ family!" He turned away from her, realizing that he sounded like such a brat – he grimaced.

Lexi recoiled, gasping as she straightened out her impeccable suit ensemble.

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way, but how, exactly, is becoming a stupid petty gangbanger gunna solve anything?" She replied, voice equally scathing. He pivoted, eyes wide and feral.

He hefted his finger at her, voice cold and calculating. "I am _not_ just some petty little dumbass motherfucker, a'ight?" He backed away, eyes softening.

"And I needed the money. You'd be surprised at how much this job pays." He replied nonchalantly, picking up his ball again.

"What, paid to kill people? To risk your own life? What kind of job is that?" She asked, choking up a little.

Pierce managed to meet her gaze. Despite her confident exterior, he could tell that she was concerned about him – it was the same look he'd seen so many times in his mother's eyes. He almost wanted to slap her for using it on him – it was completely disarming.

He sighed. "You're right. I know it's stupid." He relented, eyes brimming with unspoken desperation. "But did I really have a choice? I couldn't just leave her, Lex." He croaked.

Lexi offered a tiny smile. "I know," she replied softly.

Pierce returned her smile, his a little forced, as he turned and picked up the ball again.

"You always were a mommy's boy," she said. He passed the ball to her.

He playfully nudged her as she lined up her shot at the net. "So, what's with the suit? I never thought I'd see you in pin-stripes." He asked, folding his arms.

Her toss bounced off the rim, as she turned and flicked the collar of her jacket up, revealing a familiar badge. _Ultor_.

Pierce's eyes narrowed, his entire body stiffening, yet she barely noticed.

"Landed a cushy job. All those business courses really paid off." She said.

"With _Ultor_? Really?" He sneered, brows raised questioningly.

She shrugged. "Why? What's wrong with Ultor?" She asked.

"A clothing company? Seriously, who the fuck are you and what have you done with my sister?" He snapped, but his typical playfulness had returned. It was hard for him to stay mad at her – after all, they were still family. She smiled, warmth spreading across her dark skinned features. Her heart-shaped face, and bright green puppy-dog eyes reminded him so much of their mother. However there was something else... A touch of doubt seemed to cast over her, as her lips twitched.

She sighed then added "She grew up." As quickly as it had come, her smiled vanished as she slowly trudged back to her car.

Gat narrowed his eyes at the drastically altered church. It was hard to belief that he and Eesh's relationship had blossomed the way it had under Julius' reign. Even harder to believe that he was her uncle. Gat took a long drag on his meager cigarette, sucking it down to the filter. Eesh had restricted his use of them, forcing him to smoke outside. The memory was bittersweet – he flicked out the bud, already feeling starved of her company. He would trade a million of them just to hear her voice again. He glanced up at the church, the wind catching his ruffled hair – he'd practically stumbled out of bed at noon, refusing to gel up his hair, or acknowledge the bags under his eyes.

Part of him was relieved to know that the Boss was taking action; every fibre of his being burned with eagerness to act. Another part of him was impatient, and didn't care about taking bullshit precautions, or establishing a plan of action, or waiting for Pierce to pick up a trail. Gat was reckless by nature, and whilst his charge-in take-no-prisoners brutality could be effective, it had its costs. His leg. His chest. His girl... Gat clutched his chest, probing the massive scar tissue that stretched diagonally along his right side. He grimaced, trying to shove the memories of that night out of his mind. He knew they would come back to haunt him as soon as he fell asleep. He hated the feeling of vulnerability almost as much as he hated the feeling of being helpless, the inaction burning into him like a corrosive poison. He shook off his foul mood, reaching for a second pack of cigarettes, lodged beneath his pin-striped jacket. A pair of slender hands snaked from behind him, gently placing a cigar to his lips with one hand, and lighting it with the other, the sensuous fingers brushing ever so tenderly against his skin. Gat stiffened, throwing up his arms, disengaging the hold, as he pivoted to face the person in question.

He was met by a short, curvy femme fatale, with bright red lips, small green eyes, and a mess of black dreads, pulled back into pigtails. She grinned up at him, swaying ever so slightly, sliding her hands out of his grip. He had no memory of this woman, with her bright orange hotpants and baggy white top that read _Viva La Mexico_. As a look of confusion passed his face, the woman pouted, reaching up and gently stroking her manicured nails against his cheek. She tsked. "Poor baby. You seem so very jumpy." She chimed in a warm, motherly tone.

She smiled, holding out a fresh cigar for him. "Here. I'm sure a big boy like you'd want something a little more..." She paused, eyes fluttering briefly as she tried to find just the right word, before leaning in closer, tucking a fresh cigar in between his lips again.

"_Exhilarating_." She breathed hungrily.

Gat's eyes flamed. It was close up like this that he could see the slight tinge of yellow on her teeth, and the tiny wrinkles of her face. He was fascinated – a MILF hitting on him? Surely this woman wasn't from around here; no woman in this town would even think to make a pass at the batshit psycho, that just so happened to be the main reason the Saints had earned their deadly reputation in the first place – that is, until the Boss came along.

He sliced off the end of the cigar, eyeing her. "And how much you charging?" He asked, nodding suggestively at her.

She hummed to herself. "Consider it a freebie. I just can't bear to see a handsome man like you so agitated." She purred. Gat snorted, lighting up the cigar and taking a long indulgent puff.

He sighed with relief, his blood singing as the intoxicating smoke flowed in and out. "Handsome, eh? That's a first." He grumbled, running a hand through his unkempt hair.

She gave an amused look. "Not from what I've heard." She corrected.

Gat jolted, snapping his head in her direction, and glaring at her. Who the fuck was this woman and how did she know him?

She continued. "To hear the ladies of this town tell it, you're rather..." She paused again, searching for the right word. "_Desirable_." She declared.

Gat coughed loudly, expelling huge clouds of smoke. "Oh really?" He managed to choke out. He was mildly curious why this chick was coming onto him.

"You must be lost, lady." He said, finding himself backing away. She gave him a sultry smile.

She shook her head. "Not at all, Mr Gat." She purred. He studied her, trying to ignore the small spark of fear. _Seriously, who the fuck was this crazy-ass bitch, _he thought.

She hefted a pack of cigarettes that he'd never seen before – the beaten-up box was red, with a yellow cobra printed on the front and some Spanish shit scrawled across it. She placed one of the cigarettes against her lips and lit it, never breaking eye contact with him. She titled her head, eyes searching his.

She held out her elegant jewel-laden fingers towards him. "Rihanna." She stated. The firmness in her eyes suggested that she was more than just a middle aged Columbian housewife, or Mexican maid from some ghetto slum. The same kind of bloody determination he often saw in the eyes of the Boss. Reluctantly, he reached out and shook her hand, returning her smile.

Rihanna leaned into his arm, brushing her moist lips against his earlobe, her head nestled at the crook of his shoulder. Gat's brows rose, his skin tingling at the foreign touch. A growl involuntarily rose from his throat.

"Take care, mongrel." She cooed, before parting, then continued to swagger off without looking back. Gat stared after her for a brief few seconds, frozen in time. He was so distracted by what had just happened, that he almost dropped his cigar. _Da fuck just happened?_

Once she was a few blocks out of range, Rihanna spat out the teetering stubby butt, before it could singe her lips, then stamped it out. She held up her fingers, having dipped her expert hands into his jacket pockets without so much as a word of protest from him. _Some gangbanger he was, unable to even spot when he was being pick-pocketed_, she thought. She examined the white globs of dust that clung to her fingertips. _Loa Dust_. She could feel her blood boil. So. It was true. The Saints did seem to be involved with the Loa Dust. The question was, how much they were producing, where, and who was running it. She heard a distant police siren, followed by the familiar screech of tires. Her entire body seized up, as she sunk further into the shadows. Then, as quickly as she'd come, she turned and ran from sight, glad that she'd chosen to wear sneakers that day.


	8. Chapter 8

Shaundi was surprised by how early she'd woken up that day. A few minutes after Pierce had left, she quickly dressed into her usual tank and low-rider jeans. Before long, she found herself fiddling with the gps on her phone. She was about to tuck her phone back into her pocket when her finger hovered over her contact list. She pursed her lips. She couldn't remember the last time she'd spent some girl time with the Boss. Although, in all fairness, the Boss wasn't exactly the feminine type, with her faded red skater cut hair, from jer bright blue tips, to her baggy combat trousers and biker boots. After the Boss' outburst, it was clear to her that she was stressed. Shaundi hated seeing her friend in such anguish. She wondered if organising a meeting'd go down well with her – the Boss seemed to have her heart set on going after Dex and once the Boss had a goal in mind, there was very little that would stop her. Shaundi was wary of her leader, having witnessed her on such a short fuse the other night. She couldn't remember the Boss ever harming one of her own before. It was a troubling thought.

Regardless of her doubts, Shaundi called the Boss, and within the hour, the two ladies had met up at the nearest Image as Designed, situated in the industrialized Saints Row District. The Boss had grabbed some of Apollo's coffee and a baggie of fried dough balls on her way over. Shaundi grinned, taking a sip of her caramel latte – it felt like years since she'd ingested something as simple as coffee. The Boss and her sat on the stone steps outside of Image as Designed, their beverages steaming up the bitter-cold air.

The Boss glanced over at Shaundi and nodded. "Aren't you cold at all, hon?"

Shaundi shook her head. "Not really. I've seen chillier." She replied.

The Boss shrugged. "So have I, but I still wear layers." She replied, tugging at her murky green hoodie.

Shaundi smiled to herself as she processed the Boss' words. "I guess you've travelled abit then. Anywhere good?" Shaundi asked, brushing a stray dreadlock off her face.

The Boss arched an eyebrow at her, then shook her head. "Nowhere relevant." The Boss then drained the rest of her cup, tossing it down the steps. "Enough of the chit-chat." The Boss affirmed, standing up. "Why'd you bring me out here?" She asked, hands on hips.

Shaundi rose stifly to her feet. "I just thought it'd be nice for us to have abit of girl time." She replied.

Judging from the Boss' gaping expression, Shaundi assumed she was a little bit shocked. The Boss pursed her lips, tilted her head then asked. "Seriously?"

"Hey, I know we've got other things to be focusing on, but c'mon! Is an hour of hair styling _really_ gunna impact all that much?" Shaundi replied.

"Maybe, if I've gotta shoot off somewhere, mid-trim." The Boss growled, arms folded, as she shifted uncomfortably on the spot.

Shaundi tilted her head and cooed. "Aw, c'mon. It'd be nice, soothing." Shaundi grinned to herself, then leaned in close and whispered. "If we're really lucky, maybe we'll get that cute fireman guy to treat us."

The Boss scoffed. "Y'know, I already told you how I _soothe_ myself." The Boss replied. She then shook her head. She sighed."Fuckit. As long as we make it quick." She conceded.

Shaundi beamed, spun on her heels and marched up the steps, a slight spring in her step. Inside, she felt elated – surely, not many people would go to have their hair done with their boss.

Deep down, the Boss was kind've curious. The last time she'd been to Image as Designed, she and Gat were on the run from police, mere hours after her busting out of jail, and busting him out of his death sentence. And the main reason she'd gone there in the first place, was to try and disguise herself as much as possible. That, and for those five years of being in a coma, her dreads had become long and unruly. So she'd gone with the more convenient tribal bob – quick enough to comb, and ambiguous enough that she could still pass as a boy. It was kind've refreshing, having her hair treated purely for leisure this time. Even though a million things were going through her head, she did enjoy the relaxing trickle of Chinese flute music, and the luxurious touch of the hairdressers as they massaged her scalp, pumping her hair with numerous hair-care products that smelled divine. The Boss was able to close her lids and lose herself in the sensations for a brief few seconds.

Shaundi lay in the chair next to hers. "Mmmm, the lads sure know their stuff here." She said.

"Hmmm?" The Boss asked, barely lifting a lid.

Shaundi tilted her hair towards the Boss. "So, what colour were you thinking of having?" Shaundi asked. "I might go for some streaks."

The Boss bolted upright, splashing the lady behind her. "Colour? I thought we were just having a wash, cut, an' blow?" The Boss replied.

Shaundi shrugged. "Up to you. Don't worry, it's on me, Boss." She grinned. The Boss had to restrain herself from laughing. She had a vast fortune, and yet one of her crew was worried about _her_ being out of pocket? It seemed ridiculous, yet at the same time... Relieving. The Boss assumed that's just how friends were with each other. It was comforting.

The Boss shook her head. "Seriously, why d'you care so much?" She asked.

"How'd you mean?" Shaundi asked, perplexed.

The Boss shrugged, refusing to lay back down, despite the hairdresser politely urging her to. "Y'know, why bother bringing me out to do shit like this? You know it ain't my kind've scene." The Boss replied, snatching the towel that one of the hairdressers offered her, and began drying her soapy hair.

Shaundi pursed her lips. "I dunno, I just thought you could do with a treat, y'know. I mean, c'mon. You have to admit that this feels good, right?" Shaundi replied, her lips quirked upwards in a half-smile, as she tipped her head back, the hairdresser began to rinse her hair out. The Boss opened her mouth, trying to think up some witty quip.

Yet, shockingly, the words that flowed from her lips next, were true to heart "Yeah. It does" She said, smiling sincerely as a hairdresser handed her a complimentary glass of water. The kind've smile that brightened rooms.

Truth was, Shaundi felt as if she needed to confide in someone. Perhaps the occasionally cold-blooded leader of the Saints wasn't an ideal source of patience nor understanding, yet sad as it was, Shaundi knew she had few people she could turn to.

Hesitant, she asked. "Boss... Have you ever thought about, y'know.. Settling down?"

The Boss nearly choked on her drink. "I'm flattered, but... sorry, hun, I don't swing that way." She croaked.

Shaundi grinned, and shook her head. "No, I mean... With anyone. Just settling down and having a normal life?" She asked. The Boss paused, considering the words carefully.

She shook her head. "Nah. That'd be boring." She replied.

Shaundi smiled softly. "Yeah... You're probably right." She added wistfully.

Her tone sparked a spittle of worry in the Boss. "Why?" She asked.

"Why what?" Shaundi replied.

"Why would you wanna do that?" The Boss asked, her eyes firm as she studied Shaundi for weakness.

"I don't." Shaundi shrugged. "I just wondered, y'know. If you met the right person." She replied.

The Boss nodded and seemed to relax in her chair.

Shaundi was quickly swept away to have her hair pampered, leaving the Boss to herself. However, Shaundi's words stuck, echoing in the Boss' mind; _if you met the right person_. It was the kind've bullshit the Boss expected to hear in a fairytale – 'the One', as it was commonly referred to. The Boss wriggled uncomfortably in her seat – was there such thing as 'the One' for someone like her? Would she even _want_ something like that? Would she really be suited to the hampy pampy, apple-pie-eating, sparkler-waving, BBQ-having, average American lifestyle? Instantly, she dismissed it, shaking it off. She knew herself too well. How she relished in the kick of her shotgun, the splatter of blood, even the tiniest thrill of joyriding. The two didn't exactly mesh.

The styling went by in a haze, the Boss still pondering over Shaundi's words. The sad truth being that the Boss could've have had that life, if things had been different. Whilst Shaundi was discussing the pros and cons of having dreads with one of the stylists, the Boss found herself snapped to attention by the buzz of her phone. Pierce. She sat up instantly, shoving the comb-wielding stylist to the side.

"Sup, Pierce." She answered.

"Today is your lucky day," he began. "I just got a tip off that Dex was last transferred to Mehico. Seems odd that our little go-getter would suddenly jump at the chance for a demotion." He added.

The Boss snorted. "Anything to save his own skin, I bet." She replied, already on her feet and heading for the exit, thrusting a bundle of bills at the receptionist, before flashing Shaundi a sheepish smile.

"I didn't know they even had Ultor outside of America." She added, stepping out into the gusty streets.

"Shit, where you been, woman?" Pierce scoffed. "Ultor was real big in the Far East before it came here. That's where most of their shit is produced, after all."

"Whatever. Can we get some details on Dex? I wanna know exactly where the fucker is," She asked. _And exactly what that fucker's up to_, she thought.

Pierce hesitated. "I can't get anything solid, but I do know that there's another Ultor building down by the Gulf. I'm guessing that's where he'll be heading."

"Wonderful. Great work, Pierce." She grinned, flipping her phone shut.

Meanwhile, at Apollo's coffe shop, in the University District, Pierce returned to his sister's table, sitting across from her, beaming with pride.

The Boss jacked the nearest car, speeding back to the Saints hideout, her blood pulsing with excitement. They had a lead on that traitorous jackass! Finally! It was the first trickle of luck they'd had in days, and she was determined to take advantage of it whilst it lasted. They would have to move quickly in order to catch up with Dex, although she was certain they could pull it off. She'd need to make preparations, arrange for stand-ins. She was certain that Pierce could handle running the regular gang operations, keeping the money rolling in, and organizing the many sordid undergoing that the Saints regularly engaged in – from prostitution, to insurance fraud, to hitmen and causing general mayhem. The Boss' grin wavered briefly. As much as she trusted Pierce, she felt a small flicker of guilt – technically she should be leaving these duties to her second in command, Gat – even if he lacked leadership skills. Aside from the Boss, he was likely the most revered member of the Saints, inspiring them, and running the group fairly well, if abit chaotic... It made sense to leave him in charge. Yet, she could not shake the unnerving feeling that it would be a disservice to leave him behind. After all, she knew Gat – there was no doubt that he would want to make Dex suffer, and the Boss felt as if it'd be a crime to deny him the right. After what had happened to Aisha, she felt as if she owed him that. No doubt she would feel much more comfortable with her best friend by her side, anyway.

Having instructed her lieutenants to spread the word, the Boss found herself scanning through the contacts on her phone. Her heart lurched when one of them stood out. Carlos. Tears blurred in her pale blue eyes, at the memory of the naïve young man that had completely disarmed her with his gentleness. The one whom had been her first. Although she'd never admit it, nor share it with anyone, no matter how much they pried, or speculated, she knew in her heart that she could not allow herself to grow attached to someone, the way she had with Carlos. She could not bare the thought of going through that kind of loss again. Her chest began to ache, and her mind began to flood with memories, as she sat in the hijacked car in the parking lot outside the Saints hideout.

She recalled every detail, branded into her brain. She knew that she was being foolish, allowing herself to indulge her sexuality – among other things. Maybe he knew this, too. But that hadn't stopped them. The two had met in private one evening, her blood boiling. She'd just gotten back from Wardhill airport, having dropped Pierce off, and she was pissed. Aisha was dead, Gat was laid out in hospital, Shaundi had _forgotten_ about the Samedi's pot farm, and she'd let the Akuji's slip through her grasp. She was frustrated as fuck, and she'd be damned if her only other lieutenant hadn't found anything new on the Brotherhood.

She slipped under the half-closed shutters to the garage, Semi Broken. She scoped the place out, as Carlos appeared from the makeshift office, flicking through a stack of dollar bills that he'd liberated from the lockbox.

He handed it to her and whispered in her ear, "Thanks for buying me dinner."

She grinned. "It was only Freckle Bitches." She corrected.

He seemed to... blush. This confused the Boss at first. He offered her a beer from a neglected cooler, then sat on the bench at the back of the workshop. Hesitantly, the Boss marched over and sat beside him, nodding as she ripped off the bottle cap with her teeth.

In the darkness, she found solitude in his arms. Comfort; something she'd rarely experienced. It took her back to when she'd first moved to America, a time where she'd first learned what it meant to share affection. What it meant to be part of a family. In some ways, the Saints were much like a family to her. As the two began to open up to one another, ever so tenderly prying into one another's past, their emotions heightened from the booze, and it wasn't long before the two embraced one another, on the back of one of the classic motorbikes. They tossed away any prior inhibitions, sharing a night of wild passion that she knew she would not forget.

That's what pained her the most. Knowing that she could not forget what they'd done, and what had resulted from it, soon after. How he'd been captured by that Brotherhood bitch, Jessica. She could not wipe the vision of him, face shredded beyond recognition, limbs battered from their sockets, the odd stump of bone visible as it tore through his skin. But more than that – so much blood. Everywhere. A long red smear, splattered along the road, smudged along the tires, bumper, and the chains of the truck. His lips, the same lips that had set her flesh alight with lust, barely attached to his face, swollen, and teeth full of blood and grit. Yet it was hard to mistake the words that he tried to blurt out, but it was clear that he didn't have much strength left, between his painful whimpers. Each one, wrenching at her heart. It was clear what he wanted.

She shook her head, tears beading in her eyes. She tried to lift him, carry him, drag him. She would get him fixed up. She would take him to the hospital. But even trying to lift him caused him to howl in agony. She let out a pitiful sob, setting him back down. She felt trapped, again. She knew he didn't have much time left, his strength waning, his breath becoming even more shallow. His body occasionally twitched, as she knelt before him. Their eyes locked, as he feebly tried to clasp her hand. It felt cold, as he lie there, shivering, unnaturally pale, and his eyes bloodshot.

He heaved his chest, then managed to utter a barely audible whisper; "Kill. Me." He'd warbled.

The Boss could feel a lump forming in her throat. She couldn't let him suffer. Couldn't bare to end his life, either. Yet she had to. It was what he wanted. It went against every fiber in her being, to kill one of her own. Her hand seemingly moved of its' own accord, she clenched her eyes shut. She hefted her gun, aligning it with his mangled face. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, as a small attempt at a smile, stretched his bloodied mouth. She squeezed the trigger, and it was all over. Her world seemed to stop, unable to register the gunshot. Her senses became deadened, his grip suddenly limp.

It seemed that murder was the only thing she knew how to do, anymore.

She'd gone very still in the car. She could hear distant thunder roll overhead, snapping her out of her daydream. She hadn't realised that she'd been clutching her phone to her chest so tightly, clinging to it like a lifeline. No one could know. She swallowed hard, eyes fighting back tears as she scanned the parking lot with steely eyes. She could spy a few purple clad stragglers, swaggering over to the hideout's entrance. In some ways, she envied her recruits. An unwelcome tear trickled down her cheek. She suddenly felt emotionally drained, wanting to bury her face into the soft embrace of the air bag.

There came a gentle knock on the window, and the Boss hastily snapped her head up. Without turning her head, she gave a curt nod of greeting to Pierce.

She swung open the door, nearly banging his kneecaps.

"Woah, hey." He exclaimed. "You're eager, huh."

The Boss snorted. "No time like the present." she croaked.

Pierce gave her a questioning look. "Ain't you gunna ask how I got a hold of this?" He asked as the two cut across the parking lot.

The Boss briefly halted, raising an eyebrow at Pierce. "I dunno, imps? Gawd himself could've descended from the heavens to inform you personally, and I still wouldn't give a shit." She snapped.

Pierce wrinkled his nose. "Who pissed in your punch bowl?" He retorted.

The Boss glared, shoving him aside as she entered the hideout, determinedly ignoring him. "What matters is that we don't let him slip by us again." She paused, glancing at him. "We're going to need every advantage we can get."

Pierce nodded. "I've got someone on the inside. She'll update us if anything changes." He said.

Now it was the Boss' turn to be puzzled. "Wait, you had someone scoping him out already, and you didn't think to bring that up?" She asked.

Pierce narrowed his eyes. "Look, it ain't all about you. Shit, I didn't even know she was working with him until now." He replied.

The Boss studied his face, for the slightest speck of insincerity. She was mildly curious about who this mysterious _She_, was. Perhaps Pierce had snagged himself a girlfriend. Or more to the point, perhaps he was trying to imitate Shaundi. Whatever the case, the Boss didn't see much use in pressing him further.

Instead, she conceded; "Fair enough. But we may need reinforcements if things go pear-shaped."

"Heh." Said a voice as they rounded the corner to the main balcony.

The Boss' eyes widened upon recognition.

"They often do." Gat added.

The Boss recovered her mild shock, before registering Gat's sudden change in attire.

His usual pin-striped dress pants had been swapped out for a pair of baggy jeans, and his purple silk shirt traded in for a blood-stained tank top. He reeked of beer and cigarettes. His bloodshot eyes also indicated that he might've been abit stoned too.

Pierce held up his hands in a warding gesture. "Woah, Gat; you look like shit."

"Nah, man. You do. I look like them Simpsons fuckers." Gat replied, in a dreary detached voice. He then began to chuckle to himself, his face beaming with amusement.

Pierce and the Boss exchanged concerned looks. "I'm worried about him." Pierce squeaked.

"Me too." The Boss replied stiffly. She then turned to Pierce. "I'll get him home. You can deal with this lot." She ordered, vaguely gesturing towards the odd clusters of gang members, then spun on her heels, slipping her arm under Gat's, before Pierce could protest.

He stumbled as she tried to peel him away from the wall, his head swimming with dizziness.

The Boss hauled him out of the elevator and across the parking lot, his head nuzzling against her neck, sending cold tingles rocketing up and down her spine. She tightened her grip on his shirt – his bulky muscular mass was a lot heavier than it looked. As she neared Gat's beat-up Hammerhead, she swore she could feel warm droplets on her shoulder.

Her body stiffened. "Gat?" She asked, as she helped shove him into the car.

He shifted, uncomfortably aware of his own weakness. He knew he must've looked terrible. No doubt the Saints would suspect that he was a little more troubled than he ought to be. The truth was, he didn't know how else to deal with his loss – other than being a good little soldier, and murdering whoever was in his path. Which he was more than happy to do. But in his down time... That's when the memories crept back. And those were the moments that he'd snap, go on a bloody rampage. At times, he understood why the Boss would do the same, out of pent up anger.

Gat placed a hand to his forehead and took a long steadying breath. He blinked, then glanced over at the Boss, her face swirling from the affects of the Loa Dust. He never thought he'd become a junkie, but he supposed it came with the territory, being a blood-crazed psychopath. Her face expression seemed stern, yet even in his inebriated state he could not shake the look of compassion that edged those endearing blue eyes. Even when they first met, and she had fooled many of the Saints into thinking she was a guy, some part of him could tell, just from those eyes, that she was not just any girl. That look alone was enough to unhinge him. With tears brewing in the back of his eyes, that he struggled to hold back, he glanced up at the rear view mirror, unwilling to look her in the eye, for fear of giving too much away.

"Thanks, Boss." He replied, clearing his throat, as he went to grip the steering wheel.

Her eyes widened, and she quickly smacked his hands away. "Like hell, I'm letting you drive." She said, slipping into the driver's seat before he could protest.

He nearly laughed at her attempt at chivalry. "Look, Boss. I'm a fully grown man." He began.

"Right," she snorted. "So grown up, he shows up to an important meeting fucking stoned." She snapped, narrowing her eyes at him. Her eyes softened. She extended an arm towards him, patting his shoulder.

He glanced at her, and she offered a smile.

"Gat, please. I know you don't like to talk about...feelings." She said; the word 'feelings' tasted bitter in her mouth. Even he knew she sounded unnerved, clearly out of her depth. Yet, she pressed on. "You wouldn't be the only one." She replied, with a hint of laughter.

He smiled back. "That's it? That's your little pep talk?" He replied, amused.

She faltered, blinked, then continued. "Pretty much. Fine, if you don't want my help. Whatever. Just letting you know that it's there if you need it." She said, shrugging then keyed the ignition.

Gat scowled._ I don't need help from anyone, _he thought, yet the offer of comfort made his chest flood with warmth.

As the Boss pulled out of the parking lot, Gat noticed a familiar figure, standing quite casually in the alleyway shadows, smoking a cigarette with a top that read _Viva La Mexico_. He knew he recognized it, and could just about remember that name of the person whom wore it. _Rihanna_. He arched an eyebrow, and began to wonder again how that bitch had known him in the first place. He tossed his head about in confusion, his lack of sleep finally beginning to catch up to him. In his mind's eyes, he saw Rihanna and the Boss' features blur together in an unnatural, unruly manner, thanks to the Loa Dust. As unnerving as it was, he was glad for the respite from the bittersweet memories of his dead girlfriend.

By the time Shaundi reached the base, Pierce and the others were beginning to disperse.

Pierce spun around upon her entry, visibly having to suppress an eye roll. "At last, Lady Dope returns." He said, folding his arms.

"Hey, c'mon man. I was busy." She said, flicking her newly trimmed dreads. "So, what's new?" She asked.

Pierce let out a groan. She didn't even know what the meeting was about?

He sighed. "We, or rather, I have got a lead on Dex. The Boss and I sussed out some arrangements. So far, she and Gat and a small group of our boys are gunna head south to scope things out, find that bitch, and kill 'im." He paused. "At least, that's the rough idea. Until then, you and me are gunna be running things here." He explained.

Shaundi beamed. "Well, that'd be a great time for us to do some bonding. Go shopping, pick out some tea cossies..." She replied, jokingly.

Pierce couldn't hide his smile. "Shut up." He snapped, then stalked off.

It was clear that the Saints were back in business.


	9. Chapter 9

The Boss was almost shaking with tension, once again. She could hardly tell if it was due to the euphoria over discovering Dex's location, or the delicate encounter with stoned Gat. She just knew she needed an outlet. She exhaled, gripping the wheel of Gat's car. She glanced over at him in the passenger's seat, a spittle of drool trickling from his mouth. He was out cold. She grinned, recalling the other night with the sophisticated ho. He looked so peaceful when he was asleep. She snapped out of her wayward thoughts, shaking off the odd feelings stirring up in her chest. She jammed him roughly in his ribcage, and yet all he did was groan and roll over in his seat. She was surprised that he didn't strangle himself on his own seatbelt.

She sighed, swinging out of the car, giving the door a loud slam, that shook the entire vehicle.

Gat wrinkled his nose, his eyes fluttering open. "Oh great," he yawned, as he contorted out from under the grip of the belt, and she tugged him out of the car.

The hell d'you even bother wearing a seatbelt for?" She asked, arching an eyebrow.

He leaned against her, his sluggish mind trying to process her words.

Eventually, he replied. "You can never know, y'know? Besides, just cuz I kill people for a living doesn't mean I ain't no safety buff." He slurred. His vision still a little blurry. Yet it was still vivid enough that he was able to pick out the familiar flowerbeds, and the quaint little suburban panelling, charred and blackened in some patches, from numerous assaults from Molotov cocktails. Eesh's house. He stopped dead in his tracks, almost recoiled from the place.

The Boss glanced back at him. "What?" She snapped. "D'you want me to come and tuck you in? Make sure there's no monsters under your bed?"

He arched an eyebrow at the offer, his mind still a little frazzled from the Loa Dust. Something about the sickly glow of the streetlamp, cast upon her golden tanned features, made him wonder...

The Boss frowned, a little puzzled by the suggestive gleam in Gat's eye. Was... was he checking her out? If she was a prude, she'd have covered her midriff, or possibly slapped him. Instead, she rolled her eyes, impatient. As she stepped forward towards Eesh' house, it occurred to the Boss, that maybe he just couldn't bare living alone, in the house where his girlfriend was murdered. She glanced down, rubbing the back of her neck with regret – now she felt like a real asshole for her earlier comment.

In the end, Gat smirked then staggered over to the door, barging through the busted front door. It was just a house, after all. He paused midstep, glancing over his shoulder, about to retort with a witty comeback. Although his brain must've been pretty slow from the drugs, and lack of sleep, because she was already striding across the street, her keen eyes searching out for an inconspicuous car in need of a new owner. He grinned despite himself, marveling at her tight lil ass in those camo shorts. For all of her macho tough girl attitude, it was hard to mistake the familiar sway. As she disappeared from sight, Gat gradually felt the energy drain from him once again, feebly stumbling over to the couch, wherein he passed out from exhaustion, and with that, erasing the memories of that evening.

The Boss already had plans in mind. A way for her to let off steam, and relax before her big trip down south. After knocking some poor fella off his Sabretooth, she drove to the nearest strip club: Technically Legal. There was one stripper in particular that she was quite fond of – one of Carlos' favorites, Amber. After his death, the Boss had spent increasing amounts of time with the girl. She'd found out that one of Carlos' cousins had dated Amber in high school, making them quite close. It was comforting, listening to Amber talk about their awkward adolescence together, how Carlos had helped support his cousin in her difficult phase of 'coming out of the closet'. How Carlos had been such a respectful client, very generous, often spreading the word to rich frat boys, and buying the girl's drinks during the tough summer months, where the older gentlemen would be busy playing happy-families when on vacation.

Upon entry, the Boss was almost shocked by the sea of purple. It was like a giant Mexican wave, glasses and bottles raised, followed by a chorus of drunken whoops of joy. She grinned. No doubt many of the recruits were all avid to find out which one of them was gunna accompany her, to help track down Dex. Booze flowed freely, a mismatched group of college kids were trying to sing along to the jukebox in the far corner of the room. Most, however, were drawn to the center, where a gleaming golden pole stood, just waiting to be occupied. The atmosphere was thick with a mix of testosterone and anxiety, as the occupants awaited the appearance of one of the many talented performers. Along the east and west walls, were little archways, presumably leading to private booths, lined with purple velvet curtains. She vaguely recalled the owner remodeling the place after the Saints. Perhaps in memory of his most favored customer, before the Boss.

She ordered a cheap beer from the bar at the back of the room, eyes searching through the mass of tacky gold surfaces, and ambient lighting, accented with the occasional potted fern. As she pressed the beer to her lips, she felt the sudden brush of silk against her ear, followed by manicured hands, skilfully dancing across her shoulders.

"And where have you been, missie?" Amber asked, her voice light and her tone playful, as it often was.

After a little more probing of the Boss' shoulders, she realized. "Oh dear, you're far too tense." She observed.

The Boss tilted her head towards the young woman. Amber was not exactly a beauty, however she did have an exotic air about her. Her thick mass of afro hair was tied up into a high, well-groomed bun, held in place with a matching golden band. Her face was thin, her jaw streamlined, and her hazel eyes narrowed like a serpent, further adding to her allure. She was short, but curvy, with a gleaming golden stud in her nose, that twinkled in the light. She was dressed in a form-fitting black crop top, and a _very_ short miniskirt.

The Boss smiled. "Well, we'll have to fix that then, wont we?" She replied.

Amber's eyes lit up, elegantly wrapping her silk ribbon around the Boss' neck, and began leading her to one of the private booths. As the two of them passed, the whoops went up again, some of the boys they passed even raised their palms, about to slap Amber's ass as she swayed by, however upon receiving one of the Boss' glares, seemed to reconsider. The Boss may have respected her crew, but she also respected the rules of the club – and was somewhat protective of Amber, one of the few people that had any real connection to her lost friend.

Amber released the Boss, once she was settled in their own little booth. The floor was littered with plush pillows, the client's chair covered in silk – the Boss reckoned it made it easier to clean out jizz. On the walls, there were crumpled, crude watercolors, that were meant to depict the curviness of the female form.

Amber caught the Boss admiring them. "Our manager wanted to add culture, or some shit. Make the place look fancier, I guess." She shrugged, as she began wriggling her miniskirt off, revealing her gold g-string.

The Boss shook her head. "You drew them."

Amber barely flinched, and instead giggled. "Oh really? Who told you that?" She then bit her luscious lips, wanting to take it back.

The Boss glanced away. They both knew whom. The person now absent in both their lives. The booth suddenly felt claustrophobic, heady with tension.

The Boss swallowed, legs planted far apart, hands gripping her knees. She exhaled slowly, as she began to sink further into the chair. Amber pursed her lips, tutted, as she straddled the Boss.

Her fingers began to gently trace the tribal swirls of the Boss' arm tattoos. "Now, now honey. What're we gunna do with you?" She purred, twiddling the Boss' ear, whom smiled at the tingly sensation.

"There's no need to be defensive with me." Amber reassured, before bending backwards, showing off her taut stomach.

The Boss sighed. "I know. The weird thing is, I'm not even that stressed."

Amber swept her legs off the chair, pivoted, then began swaying her hips back and forth ever so slowly. "I may not be a psychologist or nothin', but I do make it my business to _know_ people." Amber replied, leaning over the Boss' lap, whom had to prop her head up – she wondered if the heat and the enclosed space was making her sleepy.

Amber pursed her lips, flicking her ribbon in the air, brushing it against the Boss' cheek. "Is it something to do with Ultor?" She asked.

The Boss shook her head, glancing at the stripper, amused. "You really think those assholes would get to me?"

Amber returned her grin. "Hardly. But you sure did take the bait; implying that something is bothering you?" She cooed, all the whilst gyrating her hips, inches from the chair. The Boss opened her mouth to retort, but faltered. She was right.

The Boss sighed. "You know me too well." She replied, some of her earlier iciness melting away. Amber tossed the ribbon over her shoulder, abandoning her usual routine and instead slumped down onto the Boss' lap, gently stroking her arms.

"Then if it's not those fat cats, then what is it?" She asked. She then glanced up at the Boss, studying her features. "It couldn't be Dex, either." She added.

The Boss gave her a questioning look.

"Your boys are loud mouths – I figured you'd be heading here for a cuddle. Y'know, before you run off again, blindly slashing your way through his minions." She said playfully, answering the Boss' question, before she'd even asked.

The Boss grinned; it was like she could read her mind, sometimes.

It became even more clear, with Amber's next words. Her eyes widened in realization. "It's a man, isn't it?"

The Boss stiffened, glancing away.

Amber beamed, before resting her head on the Boss' shoulder, giving her a comforting squeeze. "Or a woman." She added.

The Boss shook her head, amused. "If you say so." She replied nonchalantly.

Amber scoffed. "I know that love-lorn look. Trust me, I see it almost everyday from back alley perverts." She paused, smiling to herself.

Amber was pleased, happy that the Boss was finally moving on from Carlos. Amber knew just how much his death had affected her. For one, Amber wasn't stupid. She figured the reason the Boss kept coming was to see her, to dig further into Carlos' past. Even if the Boss didn't care to admit it, it was clear the way it was painted on her face – she missed him dearly.

The Boss wanted to offload all of her deepest thoughts and feelings. She felt like if she didn't, she would burst. Especially if she was about spend the next few days, rubbing up alongside the one person _causing_ all these feelings to stir. All the guilt...

The Boss sighed in defeat. "I do. But I don't know what much good it'd do. I mean, the last time I got... intimate with someone..."

The Boss could feel her lips go numb, her throat constricting, going dry. She couldn't bare to admit it, as those same bloody images ravaged her mind, making her wince – yet it was only for a moment, as she sat up and cleared her throat. However that brief window was more than enough for Amber to understand. The Boss knew it was too.

The young stripper's blank expression softened, as she leaned over, placing a finger to the Boss' lips. "I understand." Amber whispered soothingly. "It is tough, of course." She dropped her hand, her gold bangles jingling. She then smiled. "Although, having said that, that doesn't stop you from using my services."

The Boss met her gaze, smirking. "Yes, but when have I over-stepped my boundaries with you?" The Boss replied. "Besides, with you it's different."

Amber smiled softly. "True." She added, before leaning, grazing her teeth against the Boss' earlobe. "I'm not Gat." She whispered.

She then slid herself off of the Boss' lap, whom seemed to be rooted to the chair in sudden panic.

Amber shook her head, amused. "Don't worry, Boss." She said. "I have no one to tell." Then she paused, her brow furrowing. "But, I will say that I'm not the first to speculate."

The Boss gripped the silk, balling it in her fists, running her fingers over the smooth material. "Is it really that obvious?" She asked, voice bitter, and edged in self-loathing.

Amber wanted to backtrack, reconsider her words – she hoped the Boss would not be too upset, but moreover felt bad for making things worse, it seemed.

Amber shook her head. "No. Well, only for those that have enough time to notice." She shrugged. "Sometimes it's just the little things. All I'm saying is, whether it's true or not, I'd suggest that you discuss it with him." Amber added.

The Boss tilted her head, scrutinizing the girl. "And how would that do any good?" She asked.

Amber smiled, cupping the Boss' face in her hands. "I can't say if it would. But you two are adults. And quite frankly, I can't think of a better way to put a stop to any rumors going around. If you two can get it all out, maybe you can fix things before anything gets too out of hand."

The Boss considered this – was it even a good idea to be taking advice from a stripper? Not that it mattered. Because as much as the Boss trusted Amber, she simply did not know how delicate the situation had become. More so, the Boss couldn't bare to loose another Saint like Johnny. And as much as she sought his companionship more and more often, out of fear of losing him, and her feelings gradually began to grow, so had her fear – fear for his safety. All those close to her, had the tendency to either die, or be threatened at gunpoint (with the exception of Pierce.) And despite him trying to hide it, it'd become clear that Gat was at a low point, a vulnerable state which if taken advantage of, could very well cost him his life. Maybe she had a lack of trust in him. Maybe it was a lack of faith in his and her skills. One thing was certain though – she would not allow him to end up like Carlos.

The Boss sat up, embracing Amber tightly. The stripper was briefly taken by surprise, however managed to return the hug.

The Boss added. "Thanks, sista. But there is nothing to fix."

Amber sighed. "There's no changin' you, eh? Stubborn as a mule." She replied.

The Boss pulled away, flashing a knowing smile. "Stubborn gets shit done." The Boss declared. "But you have a point – I mean, I don't really care what they think is going on between me and anyone, at all." She paused, a memory of the other night flashing through her eyes.

The events at the Merhman. Perhaps she'd overreacted – however she'd convinced herself that that'd be in defence of Aisha's memory. But had it? Maybe she was just defensive over any insinuation that her and Gat were boinking because deep down... She wanted it to be true. _No_, she told herself. _That asshole had been out of line. If he'd said the same about any of my lieutenants, I would have been equally ticked_.

She shook it off and continued. "But, I don't see the point of letting this kind of bullshit rumor mill get started. So, I'll speak to him about it, and see if we can alter those _little things_." The Boss smiled, then pivoted, ready to leave, but Amber latched onto her arm.

"Wait!"

The Boss arched an eyebrow at the girl, expectantly.

Amber continued. "Make sure you stick it to that son-ova-bitch." She added in a low growl.

The Boss nodded. "A shiv in the skull from each and every Saint that he turned his back on."

And with that, the Boss then stalked out.


	10. Chapter 10

Beth woke up with a mouth full of sand. She blinked, eyes dry and crusty. She tried to raise her hand to clear her vision, but yelped as pain shot up through her arm, ringing through her skull. Then she remembered. The grenade. The gun fight. The attack dogs. The desperate dash. She tilted her head, trying to survey her surroundings. As far as she could tell, she was still in the desert. She glanced forward, noting the dark shadows cast by row upon rows of tyres. She could feel the heat of the sun beating down onto her back. She tried to stand, but could do little more than roll herself over, wincing as searing hot agony raced through her entire left side. She wondered if this is what people felt like when they had a stroke. She imagined cutting off her entire arm, searing the wound to stop it from bleeding. Maybe if she set fire to that arm, it'd deaden the nerves enough so she wouldn't be able to feel the pain. She could feel salty tears sting her eyes, as the morning sun began to blind her. She screwed her eyes shut, wondering how long it'd take for the sun to bake her until she was nothing more than a diseased piece of human jerky.

She stayed like that, drifting in and out of consciousness, for what could've been minutes, or hours. She could feel the weightiness of her tongue, matched only by the dryness of her throat. Her entire body felt stiff, as if her blood had turned to lead in order to compensate for the poison running through her body. She tried to form coherent thoughts, trying to piece together what exactly had happened to her. One thing did stick out, between the blurry memories and sharp pangs that shook her body; where was Dex? She whimpered, her feet kicking up sand in frustration. She wanted her soul to reach out to him, somehow. Scream at him, beg him to come find her. She was so scared and alone. She didn't want to die. She wasn't ready to die. She was still so young. Barely half way through high school. She had plans of going to college. She was going to become a wildlife veterinarian. Preserving those adorable endangered species. Even the big cats that terrified her with their imposing size and razor sharp teeth. She could picture them now. Needle-like teeth piercing her skin. Her neck. She felt panic prickle up her spine. A needle. She raised her right hand, brushing it against her neck. She winced. It must've been bruised. She could feel a tiny trickle of dried blood, then pulled away, examining her stained fingertips. Her brow furrowed. That didn't make much sense. She couldn't remember having any injections recently. But the flash of the needle... That image kept circling in her mind, setting off alarm bells. It seemed so clear, yet her mind couldn't quite put it together, sluggish at it was.

She could almost feel the water being sapped from her body, her skin crisping in the heat. Beth licked her lips, recalling the ice cold water from that motel shower. Sure, it'd been unpleasant at the time, freezing cold, and speckled with rust. But compared to this overwhelming heat, it felt like the peak of luxury. Her brain felt like it was going to boil out through her ears, her chest aching with every breath. Her eyes rolled up into the back of her head, as she felt consciousness slip away from her once again.


	11. Chapter 11

The Boss awoke to the sounds of gunfire. Instinctively, she grabbed the nearest item and hoisted it up – which turned out to be a fellow Saints' foot. She squinted, blinking the sleep out of her eye, noting little sparks flying off a set of metal cans stacked across the bar. She grinned, dropping the foot, and stepping over the sleeping bodies that littered the floor. She picked up one of the many pistols that lay askew across the counter-top and began practicing. Her mind was still abit blurry, despite the tiniest hints of adrenalin kicking in her veins; she felt like she was on auto-pilot. She was hesitant to talk to him, after her discussion with Amber the previous night. Eventually, they paused to reload, giving her an opportunity to speak.

She sighed. "Listen. About last night..."

"Woah, there. I dunno what you were smoking, but I was playing chauffeur for my wife last night." Said the man next to her.

The Boss wrinkled her nose, as the rest of her senses began to filter into focus. The slurred mellow tone of the voice. The flash of his revolver as he aimed it back at the targets. Wait, a revolver? Gat would never use one of those – he preferred rifles and shotguns. The Boss smiled – he always did like to overcompensate.

The familiar smell of pot and stale sweat hit her, as she titled her head, narrowing her eyes in the dim lighting.

She blinked again, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. "Tobias?" She yawned.

He snapped his head 'round, his dark beady eyes scrutinizing her, his long red dreads swaying about. He had a very gruff-looking face for someone so young, accented with wrinkles and very pale skin, due to his excessive drug use. Although he looked a lot rougher since she'd last seen him, but more so, she was surprised by his blatant look of hostility. But then again, if there was anyone that the Saints associated with that was even more brutal than Johnny Gat, then it'd have to be Tobias. Eventually, his grin melted into a full-on smile.

Although, she recognized the bloodshot eyes and combined with his sobering mood-shift, it begged the question; "Are you trying to quit the whacky-backy?"

He sighed. "Laura's pregnant. She wants me to use my pilot license to get a _real_ job." He shook his head, and with shaking hands quickly rolled himself a traditional tobacco cigarette.

It made the Boss smile, as it reminded her of her grandfather, whom shared the same habit.

"I'm down to just these, so long as I don't smoke them around her." He said, taking a few quick puffs.

The Boss tilted her head, trying to understand. He had a lovely wife (drug manufacturer or not) whom was content to settle down and live a normal life with him. And here he was, elbow deep in a criminal hideout, whilst his wife was at home, with a new life brewing inside her.

"So why're you here then?" The Boss asked, her voice sharp, trying to keep her bitterness out.

Tobias didn't seem to pick up on it. "Your boy, the black kid with the snazzy chains." He said, waving his cigarette about.

"Pierce?" She prompted.

He nodded stiffly. "Yeah, he called and said you had a job for me." He replied, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

The Boss arched an eyebrow. What the hell was Pierce up to? This wasn't how they usually conducted the drug trafficking business. Plus, last she checked, Tobias was no longer involved with that – his cousin was.

Much to her relief, Pierce rounded the corner, readjusting his cap, grinning merrily. The Boss would've found his smug expression irritating if she wasn't still dumbfounded. Was Pierce trying to take over, or something? She broke away from Tobias, striding over to Pierce. She clutched his arm and began dragging him into the little office adjacent to the bar.

He made some mild burbling protests, before tearing his arm from her grasp. "What the hell is wrong with you?" To which the Boss responded with a swift left hook, causing Pierce to stumble back into the table.

"I should ask you the same." She hissed.

She gestured towards Tobias. "Since when were you calling the shots?" She added icily, glaring at him, hands on her hips.

It was hard to look intimidating when she was a good head shorter, at five foot six inches. He paused, wiping a trail of spittle from the corner of his mouth. He could feel blood in the back of his mouth, and after dabbing his tongue there, could feel his tooth wobble.

He swallowed and straightened up, his mind spinning as he put the pieces together. "I thought that's what you wanted me to do." He replied, carefully.

The Boss was growing impatient, her entire body riddled with tension. She folded her arms, looking down at him. "I ain't even left yet and you think you're all of a sudden in charge of this bitch?" She challenged, before lunging forward, gripping his shirt. "You listen to me. Tobias ain't gang bangin'. That's his business. He ain't sellin' no more. That's his choice. I don't wanna force him back into that shit if he doesn't want to." She growled, voice scathing, and her balled up fist shaking.

Her eyes were filled with a haunting firm look about them that would've terrified Pierce, yet he refused to show weakness, expression blank.

"I'm not selling."

Both their heads turned to Tobias, whom stood in the doorway. It was in the improved lighting of the office that the Boss truly noticed how much he'd changed since she'd last seen him. He was dressed in a scruffy beige sweater, and thick leather jacket, with faded pressed dress pants. The Boss didn't know what'd caught her off guard the most; his attire or his claim.

"So.. Why're you here?" She asked.

It was at this point that Pierce managed to wrangle himself free of her grip. "I was about to explain that, before you jumped me." He sighed, peeking back at the Boss, half expecting an apology of some sort. Instead, she just arched an eyebrow, waiting.

Thankfully, Tobias broke the silence. "I told you Laura wanted me to get work. Y'know, good _wholesome_ work. Anyway, so Pierce called me to ask about my choppers." He paused to take one last pull on his stubby cigarette, before stamping it out on the carpet.

The Boss blinked then titled her head curiously. "You what?" She asked, head snapped back to Pierce.

He shrugged. "Well, you were busy with Gat. Some of the boys stayed back to help hash out a plan, and one of them brought up transport.. Since you were gone all night, I didn't get a chance to fill you in. Shaundi gave me his number, and voila." A small wave of relief washed over her; not that she'd let it show. Although a tiny bit of her found his word choice unnerving.

"You could've called." She countered, bitterly, before turning back to Tobias. "So, you're playing escort? That doesn't sound in line with what Laura wants for you."

He grunted, leaning against the door frame, scratching his stubble. "Eh, fuck it. So long as I get paid regular, and don't smoke around the baby, she's fine with whatever."

The Boss found herself speechless for the first time, since the explosion – she quickly shook it off.

She checked her watch, and was shocked at how early it was – she reckoned that Tobias had probably snuck out to meet them. They spent those early hours pouring over a complex array of maps, planning through their route down to the Gulf. Fortunately, Tobias was familiar with the area, having spent a couple of spring breaks selling pot, and scouring the beaches for chicks in his teens with his cousin. Between the two of them, they would pilot the crew to the heart of Mexico, where a convoy of vehicles ought to be waiting for them. Together, the three of them drew up a list of names for each group. A total of four of the toughest Saints would be accompanying them in the choppers, whilst another set of four of the best drivers would follow them up to deliver their vehicles. It would be harder for any of the authorities to notice them, or hinder their progress if they were to split up into small groups like this.

As the men tossed back and forth different routes, trying to work out the safest and quickest, the Boss found her mind wandering. It would be ideal for them to go in pairs. Perhaps sharing rooms, should they have to stop and stakeout the area. Her cheeks felt warm, as she contemplated the warmth, the intimacy that she so craved from her fellow Saint. Instantly, her heart plummeted. _No, how could you think like that? Didn't you learn a damn thing? Lin, Aisha, Carlos... All of them died, because they got close to you_. Then came a wave of something that she rarely allowed herself to feel; guilt. How could she think of such things as she watched Gat agonize over the death of his girlfriend?

She swallowed, a cold lump forming in her throat. "I need a break." She replied, cutting Pierce off, whom threw up his hands in frustration.

She pivoted, speeding up the stairs and out into the striking dawn. She was momentarily halted by the beauty, as she watched the pale morning sun rise over an orange-y, purple-y sky. It was probably due to the toxic city fumes, which created a stark contrast of colour against the inky black silhouette of the buildings. She felt a smile tug at her lips; this may not be a perfect home, but it was still a home. Her home. Her city. She suddenly felt a small prick of doubt; she hoped that she would live long enough to return here. She felt an empty pit in her stomach, niggling deep inside her. Yes. She had unfinished business here, too. She was determined to live through this, for the sake of her grandfather.

"Psst!" A voice called from the shadows.

The Boss flinched, narrowing her eyes at the source. She managed to pick out the grey trench coat, and familiar police hat of Troy Bradshaw, his face mostly obscured by his thick sunglasses and fashionable scarf. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes; he had all the subtlety of a train-wreck. He refused to budge from his spot in the alley way, so she swayed over to him. Although, her initial instinct had been to reach for the SMG she'd kept stashed under the waistband of her camo shorts. He seemed shifty, very nervous for the esteemed chief of police. Or he could've just been very cold. Or busting for a piss.

"I thought you said Friday." She hissed.

He shrugged, removing his shades. "Eat me. So I'm a day early. I can't have random paperwork like this stinkin' up my office. Shit, it's bad enough having the press sniffing around." He replied, slipping her a sheaf of papers.

She arched an eyebrow, rifling through them. "You're a cop, and you're worried about some fuckin' papzi?" She asked, tilting her head. She shook her head and gave a little shrug. "Why d'you do it, Troy?" Her expression was wistful, eyes fixed on him, narrowed, as if they could see right through him.

His breathe caught in his throat. He glanced at his shoes and sighed. "It's just... all I've dreamed about, y'know? Since I was a kid. I just wanted to do good. Be a hero, I guess." He paused, chewing on his lip. "But ain't no heroes, in this town, eh? It's all scratch my back, scratch yours." He met her gaze intently. "As you know." He replied, voice gruff.

"I'm not forcing you to do anything." She added, voice low and steady.

He grunted. "Of course not." He sighed, shaking his head, leaning against the wall. "You just like exploiting me." He added.

"Yes, yes, I know. I'm such scum." She replied, smirking.

He smiled, as she continued.

"But seriously: why are you helping me out, anyway?"

He blinked, thrown off a little by her question. Not that he should be shocked; he heard that question almost everyday, whispered amongst his colleagues behind his back. It was strange being asked by the person causing all this strife, let alone being asked outright. But then again, the playa had never exactly been the predictable sort – always full of surprises.

Troy closed his eyes in thought, as the sun rose higher, spreading its' warmth. Like this, he could focus on his breathing, allowing his mind to settle in its' own time. Something about reflective meditation, or some such bullcrap that his yoga-loving wife had been wittering on about. He liked these short bursts of freedom, the slight rush it gave him, the smallest of breaks from his strictly regimented lifestyle. His father had been a veteran, and was keen to turn Troy into the same, constantly pushing him for perfection. His brief time with the Saints, although it had been perilous, it had also been a blast of wildness and depravity that had set his blood alight with a feeling he hadn't felt before. He had had a taste of true freedom. It was often sobering to think about the Saints' body count, however in comparison to three gangs, all capping kids that dared to wear the wrong coloured shirt, the Saints were merciful. But then of course, there'd been the victims of the drugs, and prostitution rings. But even Troy couldn't kid himself; most good honest people, cops, lawyers, fry cooks, priests, even Ultor execs, were all subject to vice. As long as there was a demand, it would be met. The beauty about the Saints is that their leader was honest. Honest, deadly, and fiercely loyal to her crew. No matter their differences, he couldn't help but respect that.

Once he opened his eyes, he was shocked to find her striding back over to her hideout. As the rest of his senses returned, he could hear the distant rumble of police sirens, sending shivers up his spine. He threw back on his shades, tugged his scarf up, dug his fingers into his pockets and darted in the opposite direction. He knew how easily this kind of sneaking around could discredit him, if he was caught. Although, they'd rarely spoke. He had his role to play, and she had hers. He smiled, reminded of that childish kids game he'd watched others play at school from inside the classroom. His allergies often kept him inside. It had been the main reason he'd never been drafted, much to his dad's shame. He smiled, as he recalled the name of the game. Cops and Robbers. How simple things had been back then in that little bubble of artificial innocence.

The Boss began scanning through the camera shots taken from the security footage for the past month or so, as she made her way back to the elevator. It briefly occurred to her that perhaps Troy would've wanted to catch up with Tobias. But she reconsidered – he probably had to get back to the police station before eight. She flicked through a couple of photos then froze, eyes going wide. It was her.

Her gut sunk. She'd convinced herself that the crazy woman she'd encountered the other day had been nothing more than a dream, having successfully managed to shove it out of her head these past few days. Although, that hadn't been hard, since plenty of other things had taken priority. It was now, that as she gazed upon the hazy picture that she recognized the gaudy jewelry, and striking make-up upon the stout woman. She focused, tilting her head as she proceeded to flick through the next few snaps. It seemed that she was flanked by two pairs of men, dressed similarly, with black slacks, and vicious blood-red tiger-pattented blazers. She bit her lip, mildly amused; she couldn't help but be reminded of the Carnales. Each of the bodyguards seemed to be broad and burly, carrying large golf bags. She began to wonder just who this woman was, and why she was so important that she'd have a small entourage. Was she some new pop sensation of some kind? How exactly did she know the Boss?

She absent-mindedly began chewing her nails, startled when she felt a strong pair of arms wrap 'round hers, pulling her close. She glanced up, tensed and alarmed. Some of her discomfort dissipated when she saw Gat smiling down at her. She couldn't remember seeing him this happy For some reason, it unnerved her.

"Well, good morning sunshine." She replied as the two parted, slapping palms. "You're lookin' better." She added.

He stretched, puffing out his chest. "Feelin' better." He yawned. He nodded over to the sheaf of papers. "Yo, what you readin'?" He asked.

She shrugged it off. "Nothing important. Look, Pierce and Tobias are downstairs, workin' on the plan. Might as well get filled in." She replied.

He snorted, then nodded. "Eh, sure, whatever; lets' see what the boys've come up with." He replied, forcing a smile then shouldered his way past her, into the elevator, giving a small salute to her as the doors closed.

She blushed, feeling like an idiot school girl. She could tell he would much rather get out there already, and quite frankly, so did she. She was growing just as impatient. Having said that, she had her own things to attend to before she went anywhere.

She took one last glance at the vanilla folders, neatly folded it in half, then dumped them into the nearest trash can. She checked she had a full clip loaded; if she ever saw that woman again, she wasn't gunna ask questions. Her past was her past, and she preferred to keep it that way. She gulped hard – the only people from her past worthy of her time were her grandfather and uncle. The Boss quickly slipped out her phone, flicking through her contacts. No. If she was going to say her goodbyes, it'd have to be done in person. She owed them that much. She found herself walking down the block, hands in her pockets, her mind buzzing.

Yet she was completely unaware of Rihanna's presence, as she poured her 40 ounce bottle of vodka into the trash can with the vanilla folders, lit a match, then set the pile alight, eyes watchful. Rihanna had followed the Boss last night to that hideously gaudy club. Rihanna had listened as some newbie hoe bitched and bitched and _bitched_ about how uncouth little Chelsea had been on her recent escort trip. Rihanna snorted as she recalled the memory; hell, she was certain she'd make a far better seductress than that self-absorbed obnoxious squirt. After buying some of the drunken pub crawlers a few more rounds, she brazenly inquired about the Saints illegal doings – specifically who ran their drug market. As it turned out, getting a straight answer out of a bunch of rowdy youths had been harder, the responses ranging from unintelligible slurs amidst woops and cries over the din, and a list of names she didn't recognize. Perhaps the Saint's leader had recruited a fresh batch of new blood. She'd quickly become frustrated by her lack of a result, as she'd sucked down her long island tea, licking her lips as she'd caught the eye of a short, moderately attractive stripper, with a small Afro and a nose ring.

The lady had exchanged a few words with one of the bouncers, trying really hard to avoid eye contact with Rihanna. She smiled, amused. Clearly the young girl knew something, perhaps overhearing her. Fortunately, Rihanna had plenty of time to finish her drink and slip out, without being noticed. In a lot of ways, she was similar to the Boss – they both liked being the lone wolf, feeling the wind on their face, doing what had to be done to protect their own. It was a shame she might have to cut her throat if the rumors were true. Rihanna could feel her blood boil, as she squeezed the thick metal bands around her wrist. She'd stopped finding it painful long ago; it had now become a soothing act, a permanent reminder of the life she could've had, but had rejected. And she'd do it again. As she watched, under the cover of the hotel awning, Rihanna felt a wave of contempt rush over her, as the Boss leisurely strolled down the street to her garage outside her tiny apartment, and after a few rumbles from a sleek Kenshin motorcycle, she turned and was soon speeding off down the road. Rihanna's throat clenched. Somehow, she could sense where little Chelsea was heading.


	12. Chapter 12

As Gat exited the elevator and began striding down the corridor, he heard the tiniest crunching sound coming from the wall on his left side. No, not the wall. Behind the purple covered door. The rest of his senses faded away, as he focused on the source. He swore he could hear the sounds of breathing. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, as in one swift motion, he grabbed the knob and yanked the door open. His brows rose, registering shock.

He recalled the face, but not the name. "Amy?" He asked, trying to jog his memory.

The sultry young stripper smirked as she leaned against the door frame, her golden leather bra displaying her ample breaks to great affect. "Honey, my name is anything you want it to be." She replied with a broad grin, tightly tapping his nose with her long manicured fingers. She barged her way in, hands on her hips, as her eyes surveyed the grand white walls and soft lighting.

She looked mildly impressed. "This place finally looks habitable." She commented.

Gat arched an eyebrow. He remembered this stripper visiting the crib a few times on call – mostly due to Carlos being soft on her. Amber, that was it. Gat wondered if perhaps the two had been involved or something but shrugged it off. It didn't matter – the dude was dead, and this chick hardly seemed particularly fazed by that fact, so it seemed unlikely.

She turned to face him, expectant.

Gat merely shrugged. "What d'you want?" He asked, folding his arms across his chest.

"The Boss." She replied, bluntly.

Gat shifted, eyes narrowed – perhaps she wanted in on the prostitution racket, but if that were the case, then all she had to do was go find a pimp recruiting hoes - there was no shortage of those, certainly. It wasn't particularly hard; and as far as Gat knew, the Boss wasn't pimping on the side. Regardless, he felt his defensiveness of the Saints kick in, as he scrutinized her.

Finally, he decided to be equally as blunt as her. "She's out." He replied, voice scathing. He swept past her.

Amber rolled her eyes, turning to follow him. "Enough of the macho bullcrap." She hissed as she caught up with him and his large gait. "There's something she needs to know."

Gat paused mid-step, arching an eyebrow at the girl. Her expression was composed, deadly serious. It was a little disarming to see that kind of determination in a stripper – it was more common to see their eyes glazed over with lust, as their bodies contorted around poles, and their full breasts jiggled about as they walked by. Then it occurred to him. Perhaps it was the Boss she was involved with? He swallowed, uncertain how to respond – he had know idea that the Boss was a lesbian, but then again, it wasn't any of his business. Normally he found girl on girl action pretty hot, but oddly he felt indifferent this time. Probably because it was the Boss involved, and for the most part, he'd assumed that she was asexual.

Regardless, now was not a good time for any wind-swept confessions of twu wub. Presumably if the two were so close, Amber could easily just call her up rather than waste her time coming here to talk. Perhaps Gat felt a small flicker of resentment towards Amber – however he had his reasons. If experience was anything to go by, hoes like her were infamous for being goldiggers; he simply didn't want the Boss to drain all sorts of unnecessary expenses into one selfish hoe, when they had other plans. Even though it seemed redundant, he couldn't help but feel protective of her, despite her no-nonsense brutality. Shit, she'd already proven that she'd had to save him more often, a fact that he struggled to come to terms with. He was a fighter, not a damsel.

Amber shook her head and brushed past him, delicately trotting down the steps.

Pierce glanced up and beamed a smile at her. "Damn, girl. It's been a long time." He said, eyeing her.

Amber pursed her lips, giving him a suggestive leer. "You must be starved of company." She purred, striking the famous Marilyn Monroe pose before settling on the armrest beside him.

Gat snorted, wary that his earlier suspicions were being confirmed. He watched from the balcony, running his fingers along the blade of his favourite hunting knife. He distantly heard the ding of the elevator, and the familiar shuffle of Shaundi's sneakers. She yawned as she rounded the corner, scratching at her bandanna. She sidled up beside him, clutching a cup of coffee in one hand.

She caught a glimpse of his steely expression, offering him a sip. He declined, eyes focused on his knife.

She sighed. "It's gunna be hard getting up this early to do drop-offs." She shrugged, holding up her cappuccino. "Praise the genius that invented coffee." She added, taking a slurp.

Gat snorted again, eyes averted. "You'll do fine. Besides, it's not exactly hard bossing Pierce about." He replied.

Shaundi giggled. "Aw, c'mon. That's a little harsh." She paused, her smile twitched a little. "I dunno what I'd do without you guys, y'know?" She added, tilting her head at him, her voice soft.

She could feel a lump forming in her throat. The memory of her creepy-ass ex coming and trying to kill her was still fresh in her mind, and no matter her drinking, smoking, or fucking, nothing would eradicate that memory. Gradually it had faded, but sometimes the thought would spring to the foreground with such force that it'd briefly knock the air from her lungs, stunning her with the revelation that if she wasn't careful, she could end up dead by the hands of a boyfriend. That terrifying, humiliating fate caused bitter tears to bead in her eyes; surely, Veteran Child was just an exception. He was an asshole, after all, even before she'd join the Saints.

She noticed how no one other than the Boss had confronted her about that. And even then, the Boss had only really mentioned how much of a no-good dickhead Veteran Child was. A fact that Shaundi was already aware of, seeing as she'd initially dumped him. Although it had gotten her thinking – like, how many of her exes had been a bunch of manipulative assholes like him? She didn't like thinking like that – she mostly tried to shove out those memories and repress the less pleasant highlights of her past. She reckoned a lot of the Saints had their own baggage, and even if she wasn't above talking about it, she thought it best not to pry. In Gat's case, it seemed obvious what would be on his mind. Not that anyone had the balls to question him about it.

Shaundi shrugged off her dark mood, following Gat's gaze where it was fixed on Pierce and the stripper. Shaundi smiled as Pierce tried haplessly to flirt with the young stripper, trying to persuade her to give him a lap-dance. She kept reiterating that she was off-duty, as the two mumbled and giggled, whispering all sorts of things. Even if he was a little uptight sometimes, she had to admit that he had some style, and was probably the most sensitive lieutenant around, with his occasional goof-ball mannerisms. One thing was certain – he was fiercely protective of the ladies, whether they be strippers or soccer moms. Alot suspected it was so he could woo or impress them, but Shaundi reckoned it was something else. Maybe he came from a large family of females. Or maybe he just liked being the valiant knight in shining armour. She grinned: _he certainly has the bling to pull it off_, she thought.

She blinked, gulping down the last of her coffee, watching as Gat's shoulders seemed to tense. She wet her lips, about to ask what was wrong, when he spoke up.

"I don't trust that bitch." He said, voice low.

"Which one?" She asked, amused.

He nodded at Amber. "The stripper. I think she's trying to be the next Luz." He growled.

Shaundi arched an eyebrow, uncertain whom he was talking about. Shaundi'd heard of a fancy drug-trafficking Spanish lady with that name, but knew very little about her history or how Gat knew her.

Gat sheathed his knife, then thrust a bundle of dollars at her. "Get her out of here. Go to the museum, go skydiving, take her to Disneyland, I don't care. Just get her away from here."

Shaundi stared at the money, a clusterfuck of hundred dollar bills. There must've been about five thousand there – surely that'd just be enough to pay her off, or hire someone to put a hit out on the girl. Perhaps that was Gat's intention – why he didn't just kill her, she was uncertain. Shaundi gulped, looking back and forth between Gat and the stripper.

Instead, Shaundi pocketed the money and managed to tear Amber away from her intense conversation with Pierce, long enough to escort her from the building

Once they were in the elevator, Amber looked up and said; "Listen, hon. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable back there."

Shaundi couldn't contain her laughter. "Woah, you are way off base, girl. I wasn't jealous at all." Shaundi replied, wiping a tear of bliss from her eye.

She paused and smiled to herself. "Look, I'll be honest. Gat just wanted you out. I guess he didn't like seeing you all over his homie." Shaundi confessed.

Amber snorted. "You make it sound like they're butt-buddies."

The two girls burst into a fit of giggles, as the elevator pinged open.

Amber clutched Shaundi's elbow. "Hey, just because those two want some alone time to cry into their Haagan Daz, doesn't mean we can't go have some fun of our own." She added, tilting her head innocently.

Shaundi grinned. "Y'know, that sounds like just what I need." She sighed, stretching out the kinks in her back. They strode across the parking lot to where Shaundi's red minivan was parked, and soon the two were swerving through the early noon traffic, parked outside one of Shaundi's favourite places – the gym. Amber stuck out her lower lip, her hands on her hips as she examined the small, bare-bones building to the gym, Pump That.

She smirked at Shaundi. "Y'know, you have a very interesting definition of fun." She replied. Shaundi chuckled, tugging out her gym bag from the trunk.

"Believe me, you'll feel great after a Zumba class." She replied, giddy with excitement as the two breezed through the reception. Amber nodded, as she glanced around at the main gym floor, her eyes catching the glimpse of one of the door labels.

She paused mid-step; "Mhmm, and if all else fails, we could always have a pamper session in the sauna." Amber said.

Shaundi stopped beside her, her mouth hanging open. "Oooo, you read my mind." Shaundi added, before they continued their walk to the changing rooms.

Thankfully, Shaundi had a spare pair of track shorts that fit quite snugly around Amber's wide hips, and conveniently, she was already dressed in a form-fitting sports bra. Shaundi threw on a grubby white tank, and a pair of loose cargo shorts. Bright purple, naturally. The girls then trooped over to Studio One, where a mixed group of people from all ages and all different races all clustered about the room, awaiting for the class to begin.

Amber was abit nervous, skin prickling with apprehension as some of the older women there stared at them. She was used to seeing a swarm of lust-filled male faces on a regular basis, but some of the sneering seniors were putting her on edge. Shaundi kept reassuring her that she'd love it, that it was just the thing she'd need to take her mind off things, to relax her, to make her feel good, blah blah. In all honesty, Amber wasn't the most active of people. Sure, she had a high stamina. Necessary for night after night of twirling on poles and grinding on others, but it was rare that she ever gyrated her hips or shook her knockers simply for the fun of it. And accompanied by some of her favourite Latin-American music, she quickly found herself being swept away by the liberating feel, as the class twirled, jiggled, jumped, sashayed, and anything short of doing the can-can. It was outrageous, and over-the-top and utterly exhilarating. Her and Shaundi would keep sneaking glances, giggling as Amber missed a step, causing Shaundi to miss one, too. They were thankful they were in the back row, otherwise they would've disrupted the whole session with their chatter.

The single hour passed by in what felt like no time, and Amber felt abit cheated. But she was in too good a mood to let it bother her, her skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat, as her and Shaundi each took a sip of lukewarm water from one of the bottles stashed in her gym bag. A bouncy-looking grey-haired lady tottered over to the two of them, her armbands thick with sweat. She asked for a drop of the water and Shaundi complied.

"It's so lovely to see a new lady." The woman said, extending her hand towards Amber, whom shook it hesitantly. She wondered if this woman would be equally as friendly to know that Amber got paid to dance in a far more provocative manner than that.

Nevertheless, she smiled, nodding towards Shaundi. "I asked her to have some girly fun and she drags me here."

The three of them chuckled.

The lady returned her smile. "I wish they'd had classes like this sort when I was your age. These bones may creak, but it wont stop this old crow from livin' it up. Gotta get exercise in somehow." She added.

Shaundi took this as a moment to gush about the many different types of exercise, water resistance, band resistance, interval training, yoga, etc, which the older lady proceeded to gush right back in response. Amber let it wash over her, before catching a glimpse of a familiar voice. It was unmistakable. A velvety-smooth Spanish voice. The very same person she'd come to speak to the Boss about – whom she'd come to warn the Boss about.

Even as the room emptied, she suddenly felt claustrophobic, her lungs fighting for breathe. It worried her, as she recalled what the woman had been asking about – asking after the Loa Dust. Perhaps she was just hearing things, being paranoid, a side affect from the brief burst of adrenalin, she supposed. Whether she imagined it or not, Amber was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to leave swiftly with Shaundi. She'd have to pass the message onto Shaundi instead; Amber just could not risk being seen with the Saints until this possible threat was extinguished. Desperate as it was, Amber would have to trust the surly fun-loving pot-head with serious news. And despite knowing so little about the girl, Amber felt a small flicker of comfort in having someone else she could trust in this world.

Amber made a snap decision and began ushering Shaundi and the lady to the door, where they found the corridor empty except for one person.

Shaundi's mouth nearly fell open, again. "Tom?" She gaped. The shifty, impeccably dressed car salesman looked equally shocked, nearly choking on his bagel as their eyes met.

The old lady put a hand to her lips to conceal her giggles. "Oh Tommy, you didn't tell me you had a girlfriend here already."

Shaundi and Tom both exchanged wide-eyed looks, as his grandmother reached forth and began patting his back until he was able to swallow his mouthful properly.

"Just to clarify, ma'am, I have never dated your... Tommy." She replied, amused as Tom's cheeks flushed bright red.

The moment was fleeting, as he quickly recovered his composure, clearing his throat, he added. "Exactly as she said. We just keep seeming to run into each other." He said, casting a brief glance at Shaundi.

Both the grandmother and Amber felt like snapping their fingers in front of their respective parties, in an attempt to bring them out of their own little world. To them, it was obvious. The two love birds had some kind of crazy chemistry, that they were hesitant to explore. Except the grandmother was keen to nurture it, and Amber was much more concerned with getting the fuck out of this building. The grandmother drifted towards Tom's arm, handing him her door keys, whilst Amber lunged for Shaundi's arm and began storming down the hallways, past the gym floor, and out through the reception.


	13. Chapter 13

It took a few detours, but finally the Boss managed to navigate the uneven path. She cursed Ultor for uplifting the terrain to a point that it was almost unrecognizable to her. It made more sense to take the easier-to-maneuver motorbike than her beloved Baron beauty. Her heart clenched as she feared that perhaps his home had been abandoned, Ultor having flushed him out as easily as she'd done with the homeless folk that had once occupied the Saints' main hideout. It was hard to think of this stubborn old git as one of those half-crazy, drug-addicted, deluded psycho vermin. She thought as she approached the overgrown outskirts of Pleasant View, ironically named, it would seem.

A handful of squat rusting shacks sat clustered around the arcing pathway, a pair sitting beside the banks of a small freshwater pond, which in turn bled out to a nearby waterfall. The damp decaying mulch filled her nostrils, as a handful of memories spilled into her head-space. Memories of sweet potato pie, pine and nutmeg tea, and if they were lucky, a grilled steak of large-mouth bass with juicy steamed corn or baked potato and spring greens. She could spot patches of overflowing brambles mingled with industrial backwash – such as deflated tires, moldy planks of wood, rust-caked garden tools, peeling street signs worn from years of snow and rain.

She could still feel the biting chill of the wind, especially common during those long winter months. She was shocked that they'd lasted so long, carving out a simple, rustic life, quiet and content away from all the distractions and complexity of the city far below them. She smiled, remembering how when she'd first come here, when she'd settled into her new life over here in the States, how scared and confused she'd been. They were on the tails' end of winter, with very little fuel to light the gas fire. She'd been kept awake with the sound of her teeth chattering and the wind howling, as she curled up in her cot. He'd tenderly draped his leather jacket over her as a makeshift blanket, a small act, yet it meant so much. She'd instantly stilled, a natural response to such closeness. She wondered even now if he'd ever noticed that, but it'd been quickly forgotten as she tugged the jacket over her small frame, insulating her from the cold, gradually drifting off to sleep. She might've even smiled for the first time in her life that night.

Yes, it was certain. This place, was indeed a shithole. At least it was to anyone whom didn't know the history behind it, and how this small section of the city meant more to her than anything. It had caused her much mental anguish to know that this place had been invaded by Ultor, and brutally assaulted by the Masako. Of course, her and her relatives had known better to stick around when the fireworks had gone off, and had fled to a temporary sanctuary – specifically, the gritty old trailer park, north in the suburbs. The Boss had even been tempted to send one of her lieutenants to guard them personally, however she'd decided against it. There was simply no way she was going to risk their lives like that, by getting them even more involved with her tenuous lifestyle. They were after all, the only family she had ever known.

But despite all of this, it hadn't erased the damages left upon a pair of the shanties on the outer arc of the road, the ones opposite the pair that sat next to the pond; the way the metal sheets had been twisted, and around the mess there still remained shards of broken helicopters, charred and blackened from the fireball. The main bulk from the crashes had been chopped down, and sold on the black market by the owner of this tiny spittle of land. Anything to afford food and fuel to get by, in addition to selling his odd catch from the pond to some of the fancier restaurants in Stilwater. Of course, being a natural scavenger, he hadn't sold everything from the mini massacre, items such as: dried food packs, spare bullet-proof vests, parachutes, riot shields and helmets, and even lighters. Anything that wasn't destroyed and of value, he would keep for himself. The Boss didn't know if it was out of paranoia, or if he just liked to hoard certain items. She suspected it was the latter.

She dismounted her bike, the rumbling of the beast silencing as she switched off the engine She raised her head on her skinny neck, as she surveyed the flora. She smiled when she saw a familiar figure sitting on a deck chair at one end of the dock. As she approached, she realized something was wrong. It wasn't no deck chair – it was a wheelchair. She blinked, eyes narrowed. Her heart swelled as she sauntered over to the man on the rotting dock. Beside him sat a box of fishing bait, and clutched in his trembling fingers was a state-of-the-art fishing rod. His face was mostly concealed by his grubby trucker cap, but his shaggy blond beard was still visible, along with tufts of hair sticking out from beneath his cap. His weathered and wrinkled face seemed distracted. The man struggled to tilt his head as he heard her approach. He seemed to panic, dropping the rod, as he let out a feeble groan.

It was then that the Boss noted the shotgun strewn across his lap.

She halted, gently placing a calming hand on the man's shoulder. "It's ok, Uncle. It's just me." She said, in the most delicate drawl she could manage.

It'd been awhile since she'd felt relaxed enough to let her guard down like this. Fierce-some as her family could be, they were harmless compared to the hardened city-dwellers that she'd become accustomed to.

He doubled his efforts to try and tilt his head, but couldn't seem to manage.

Instead he sighed, barely lifting his arm and pointing to a first aid kit beside his bait. "My medication." He breathed.

The Boss lunged for the box, scrambling through the contents of the kit. "How's it been treating you?" She asked, popping out a couple of pills, measuring out the correct dosage.

All he did was grunt, as she knelt in front of him, and pushed each pill passed his lips, helping him to swallow.

He sighed, resting his head against the back of the wheelchair. "It's bullshit, that's what it is. Helping pa out is all I can do, and even then I'm more trouble than I'm worth." He grumbled, his fingertips brushing the shotgun.

Fear spiked through her, fingers twitching. She wanted to lunge for the weapon, snatch it from him, and smack some sense into him for good measure. But some tiny, horrible part of her didn't see the point. She'd changed since she'd last seen them. He could tell, too. It was like she had no room for feelings anymore, after all that'd she'd lost, and all that she'd sacrificed.

All of it done for their sake.

_And I would do it again_, she thought as she straightened up. "Where is grandpa?" She asked.

Her uncle's eyelids seemed to droop, an indication that the drugs were just beginning to kick in. Within a matter of minutes he'd be back up to speed – it just took awhile for the dopamine to spread. His eyes barely twitched as he gave a small nod towards the nearest metal shanty behind them.

She smiled, swiping the shotgun off his lap and handing him his fishing rod before adding; "You're not useless. Don't let it beat you."

He nodded in response, but clearly didn't look convinced. As she turned to leave, she cast a wary look over her shoulder. She wondered if she could trust him to not wheel himself into the pond, and drown himself. Not that it was particularly deep, but still. His inability to swim would surely be a recipe for disaster.

Much to her relief he regained control of his arms, and began packing up his fishing gear, then turned, and began wheeling himself back onto land. "Where are you off to?" She asked, slightly amused by his sudden shift in mood.

"I have some errands to run for pa." He replied curtly.

She smiled awkwardly, then turned to leave, but he spoke again.

"It's good to see you again, Chelz. I'd get up to hug ya, but as you can see, my legs are a bitch." He said, chuckling at his expense.

She smiled and knelt down to hug him. She felt her words catch in her throat, tears beading in her eyes as he hugged her back. It'd been so long, it felt criminal. So much had changed, and she wished that she'd had more time to dedicate to them. But moreso glad that she'd had this time now.

Yet she felt stupid, being this sentimental. This was not their last conversation; this would not be their final goodbyes. She regained herself and pulled away, her expression neutral as she watched him turn and leave, heading down the same treacherous path she'd taken up, admiring his tenacity even through the types of ordeals he'd encountered.

She approached the cold metal fortress, eyes taking in every detail. She could hardly count how many marvelous memories she'd forged within those steel walls. The heartfelt and witty conversations she'd shared, the love and support she'd garnered, the nurture and affection that she'd longed for all throughout her early years. She didn't care for the decay, the rust, the damp, the clammy air, the filth-stricken furnishings – she would rather that than her life before she came here.

The Boss knocked upon the door. There came a loud cranky voice from within "No solicitors." He called.

She grinned. "Well that's good," she began. Suddenly the door swung open as she finished; "I hate those bastards."

His eyes widened, his lip trembling as he adjusted his thick spectacles, set beneath a baseball cap. He recovered himself, stepping aside, welcoming her in. She inhaled the earthy scents, mingled with the smell of potatoes and leeks brewing in a pot, upon the gas cooker. It made her mouth water. He sat on the edge of a ratty armchair, speckled with cigarette stains. He pulled out a small tin from his overalls. His tobacco tin. He quickly rolled himself a fresh cigarette, popped it in his mouth and lit up. He gestured towards a plastic stool for her to sit, and she did – it was cold and kept wobbling but she didn't care. It was home. She propped the shotgun up against the corner.

She was caught between rapt awe and mild puzzlement; it'd been so long, and even though the contents of the shack seemed identical to before, the warm inviting atmosphere had shifted. He studied her, eyes unflinching, as he slowly took indulgent puffs. He was one of the few people that could make her feel unnerved by such a questioning, perhaps even disapproving look. She suspected she was meant to feel shame, though for what, she didn't know. It could've been her shocking death toll, as well as the numerous other acts of depravity she'd had to resort to – such as drug trafficking and escort jobs. It could've been the fact that she hadn't visited in so long, leaving her family with nothing more than a generous monthly check from the small fortune she'd acquired before the explosion. An act which she'd immediately picked up again the instant she had money to spare – although this time she'd set up a continuous payment, with the knowledge that if something were to happen to her, then it'd be a long while before their funding dried up. Not that her family would have known. Not until they picked it up on the radio stations, that the infamous criminal, the once proud figurehead of the Saints had come to take back their city. Or perhaps when her grandfather finally figured out the workings of a credit card and ATM machine.

Or most likely, he was pissed at the mess that the fight with Ultor had left, and the destruction it'd brought to his prized property.

The Boss gripped the seat of the chair, eyes darting around. She caught a glimpse of some weathered newspaper clippings, strung up along the wall, just above the small, piss-stained mattress she'd once slept on. She stood, and walked over, her mouth agape. She felt a wave of gut-wrenching guilt, gulping hard as she browsed the headlines. It was like staring down the barrel of a gun, seeing a collage of her long string of killings – her young life flashing before her eyes. Out on the streets, it was easier to not think of them as people, but rather color-coded targets. All that had mattered to her was that they were soft and weak, slow and distracted. It hadn't crossed her mind that they'd had friends and families whom would mourn them; she assumed they were just like her. Ghetto kids, whom wouldn't be missed by anyone. Even as she read through the snippets, the journalists seemed more enraptured in documenting_ her _exploits, than the lives lost. It was shocking. And people called her a monster...

"It ain't easy, is it?" He asked, eyeing her shrewdly with an expectant look.

Chelsea turned and folded her arms defensively. "I did what I had to." She replied, voice tight and small, like a church mouse. His face screwed up, like he was sucking on a sour sweet.

He shook his head. "When I told you to find work, darlin' I didn't think you'd throw your lot in with these kids." He sneered. His face softened, sighing tiredly, palms sliding down over his eyes. "I thought you knew better." He groaned.

Her brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, feeling her throat clench. "Does it matter?" She blurted out. "They would've been killed anyway. They were stupid enough to get involved with gang shit in the first place. They knew the risks!" She glared, her teeth gritted.

She wet her lips and continued in a far more composed tone. "I would've thought you'd understand." She whispered, sounding like the helpless little child he remembered so well.

He shook his head. "Kid, selling meth is one thing, but you killed people. For a living. And for no real reason, from what I can tell."

"I had my reasons." She snapped, fists clenched. She knew though, that if it came down to it, she was no doubt guilty of countless more deaths than any other Saint.

He studied her, again. She wasn't lying, and clearly, he was getting a reaction out of her. It was hard to believe that this cold-blooded killer, was still so broken at heart. Still a child, really. The same child he'd held and raised, when no one else would. He could feel tears sting in the back of his eyes. He couldn't help but feel slightly guilty; perhaps he'd set a bad example for her. When he'd finally been caught and arrested, it must've turned her world into chaos, seeing the one good person in her life, resort to something so desperate, and sordid. In some ways he pitied her; she'd never once had the chance to just be a kid. He could only imagine the kinds of things she'd endured before he'd taken her in. Finally, she met his eyes and spoke.

"At first, I did it for the money. I dunno. I guess I was in shock after I nearly got shot. I just kept thinking, if I could save other people from being killed the way Julius had, maybe I could do something good in this world. Y'know, be the hero, I guess. But really, the main draw was the money. It was so quick and easy to make a buck. And I was desperate. And I was a natural. I guess I could've found a job sweeping hair at a barber's, or serving up coffee as a barrister. Hell, I even thought about becoming a hoe. But almost everywhere I went, they turned me down. Maybe it was because I was too young, or they were too overstaffed. Whatever. The only time I felt happy, really happy, was when I was rollin' with the boys, out there on the front lines. Just that rush, y'know? Having no bullshit rules, and everyone respected me... It was the first time I'd ever really hung out with new people, and it was awesome, getting to know them and fighting alongside them. Alot of them got killed, too. Some of them are still good friends to this day. And some... Some betrayed us. And soon I realized – who says I can't do what I want? Who says what's the _right_ job for me? I'm livin' that job. And I'm happy. Isn't that what's important?" She asked, eyes flaming with passion.

It was like seeing a ghost – she reminded him so much of his own daughter.

He scratched his brow, sweat gathering between the wrinkles of his skin. "I just hate to think... that after all that time, you'd end up just like her." He declared.

The Boss halted, straightening up, as a look of stunned confusion passed her face. "Who?" She asked.

"Your mother." He replied.

Chelsea gave a deadly glare. "No." She said.

"It's tr-"

"I said 'no'." She interrupted. "That heartless whore can rot in hell for all I care."

"You never even knew her, kid!" He barked, shooting out of his seat, taking a menacing step towards her.

She barely flinched. "I don't need to." She sneered. "What kind of inconsiderate, vile, _twisted_ cunt leaves her one and only baby in the hands of a monster like that, huh?" She snapped, pacing about the small space like an angry cat. "I don't have to be a scientist to know that shit doesn't make you a Mother Goddess." She growled bitterly, seething in a raw fury that she'd repressed for so long. As she calmed, she managed to shake it off, long enough to meet her grandpa's gaze.

His expression was blank again. "Hot-blooded. Just like your grandmother." He said, settling back into his armchair. "It was devastating enough when she took my little girl. Refused to let me see her, even after I was discharged... I guess I felt like I'd lost my chance at being a father. And then when I found out I had a granddaughter, in need of home, of course I jumped at the idea. And then to see you turn out just like your mom, well... Maybe it goes to show you'd be better off without me as a dad." He finished, voice soft as he kept his eyes downcast, slowly exhaling smoke, lost in his memories.

His words tugged at the Boss' heartstrings. No doubt that had been his intention. She despised her mother for her neglect, never having known the spineless excuse for a woman. The least she could thank her mother for is for not aborting her – although considering how she'd abandoned her instantly, then disappeared off the face of the earth, the Boss didn't understand why she bothered bringing her into the world in the first place. The Boss assumed her mother was just a two-faced whore with no interest in child rearing, and she resented being told otherwise. As far as she was concerned, her parents were dead. Her actual father being dead by her own hands, and her mother being such a non-entity that it was much easier to dismiss her existence entirely. Hence why she loathed her grandfather's attempts at comparing the two. The closest thing she had to a family were him, her uncle, and the Saints. And she would take a bullet for any of them.

Chelsea's eyes softened, as he sighed and stood back up, reaching for the rusted ironing board propped open, as a makeshift table. Placed upon it was a tartan picnic blanket, with a pile of folded cloths, his toothbrush, a wind-up radio, a knife, shaving cream, toilet paper and a collection of fishing bait.

She arched an eyebrow, as she watched him rifle around through the piles of junk that lined the walls. "Why're you packing?" She asked.

He cleared his throat. "You remember that fancy trailer park you had me and Jeremiah stay at?"

She nodded.

"Well, me and him did some talking. Did some price checking, too, and with his disability check and my monthly wages, we figured we could afford one of our own. Got plenty in savings as it is." He replied, his usual sense of pride returning. She liked seeing him like this. She hadn't seen him so self-assured in years. It was a comforting sight.

Despite this, she found herself caught between blanching and smiling. Sure, she was happy for him. And glad that him and her uncle were able to support themselves again. But it did make her feel somewhat unappreciated.

"Pa?" She asked.

"Hmm?" He grunted, tucking a couple pairs of socks into the bundle, as casually as one would stuff a turkey.

She bit her lip, wondering if she should reconsider. "You do know I've been sending you money every month, right?" She asked.

He shrugged. "I thought you'd stopped after that bomb." He replied.

"I was in a coma, pa. If I could've sent you a check, I would've." She replied, fiddling with a pair of coat hangers.

His shoulders prickled with tension. "Not every problem can be solved with money." He snapped.

She met his gaze, challenging him. Of all people, to say that to her. Throughout the majority of her time with him, all she'd ever heard was him bitch about money. Although, he'd tried to keep it hidden from her for as long as possible, but she still heard things behind closed doors. By the time she hit fourteen, she'd had no choice to do something about the situation. It was either she get a job, and take over as the provider whilst he was in prison, or let her uncle die without his medication.

She inhaled slow, trying to steady herself. "As I said. I was in a coma. And no, I'm not saying that's a good excuse. Because yeah, the first thing I should've done was come back here. But I'm sorry. I ain't selfish. I had other people to look out for. And not only that, but what d'you think woulda happened if I came rushing here right after I broke out of prison, huh? Did it occur to you, that maybe I didn't wanna put you guys in harms way?" She asked, eyes fixed on him.

He merely snorted. "How'd you work that one out? How is wreaking havoc across Stilwater, once again, going to keep us outta harms way?" He asked.

She glanced away, gnawing her bottom lip.

He sighed, then leaned against the board. "Listen, kid. I care for ya. I really do. And no doubt, your lot really did clean up the streets." He paused, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze.

She smiled.

"To be honest, I would much rather your crew be running amok than three other gangs. Those Brotherhood punks used to sneak up here, trying to make out. Fuckin' horny brats." He growled. "Just... Be careful. And don't loose touch, eh? For me?"

She smiled, gripping his calloused hands, she replied. "When am I ever _not_ careful, pa?"

The two embraced each other in a hug. It was sad to think that in order to protect her and her family from future threats, it would mean leaving everything she ever knew behind. Even sadder to think that she might die with so much unsaid.

_No, fuck that_, she told herself. _Don't focus on that shit_. She _would_ find Dex, and she _would_ make him suffer, then she'd return home for punch and pie. That much she was certain – she'd made a promise.

Her grandfather parted from her, his entire body stiffening. She wondered if perhaps he was having a stroke, as he'd gone very still, eyes swiveling back and forth.

"D'you hear that?" He asked. Her eyes widened, tilting her head up.

She could hear a small whirring sound, like grating metal. Obviously very faint. The pair of them darted outside, where the volume increased, but only by a fraction. She scanned the sky in alarm, but could see little past the treeline. Her grandfather barged past her, holding a pair of bulky binoculars as he trampled over the junk and brush to get a closer look. She could feel the familiar buzz settling in, indicating that a fight was more than likely about to break out. It'd been so long, she'd almost forgotten what it was like to see a great hulking beast hovering in the sky, spraying bullets haphazardly in a shower around her. She licked her lips in anticipation, then her gaze landed on her grandfather and her gut plummeted. No. She had to get him outta here. Now.

"Pa!" She called.

He eventually emerged.

"How many?" She asked.

"Couple dozen, it looks like." He replied, clustering all his supplies into his bindle.

"Huh. Nothin' I can't handle then." She replied, checking whether or not her SMG or pistol were in need of reloading, and quickly counting how much ammo she had between them.

She silently cursed herself for her little target practice session earlier that day. She really should've stocked up on some ammo on the way here.

Then a thought occurred to her. "Hey, pa, you wouldn't happen to have any spare toys for me to borrow, would you?"

He ran a hand over his beard in irritation. "Wait here." He said, dropping his bindle, then hurrying back inside his shack. She hoped he remembered to shut off his dinner, too before he left. She nearly jumped ten feet high, when she felt her phone buzz in her pocket.

She answered. "A'ight?" She could barely hear the other side, blurred by the blaring sounds of Masako van sirens, and bursts of gunfire.

But eventually, Pierce's panicked voice came through – he sounded urgent. "Yo, Boss? Where the hell are you?"

"Pleasant View. Why? What the fuck's going on?" She demanded.

There came a hiss and a loud roar, followed by the sound of screeching tires, and a long string of shrill curse words.

"The fuck, Pierce?" She could feel her throat clench in those brief few seconds, her voice cracking.

"Fuck." He hissed.

"Pierce!" She snapped.

"Don't worry, I'm heading towards the university campus. I kinda had to take a detour. Shit!" There came another shower of bullets, just as her grandpa approached, holding a beautifully well-preserved McManus.

She smiled, nearly dropping her phone, as she gripped the impressive barrel. It felt cold and sleek in her hands, the metal quickly warming beneath her sweating palms.

She met her grandpa's gaze and nodded. "I'll handle this." She told him.

He grinned, giving her a lil salute. "I know you will, hon. Take those greedy faggots down a peg." He said, before disappearing 'round the back of his shack.

A few seconds later, there came a bang and a shudder as his trusty ol' camo-patterned Toad, rusted and mud-splattered rolled out. He snatched up his bindle as he passed, and within seconds, he was gone. She grinned, glad he would be spending his golden years in a more comfortable setting. If he was lucky, he might even have indoor plumbing and a functioning heater.

Gradually, the sounds of the approaching helicopters grew louder. She checked her phone, but she must've disconnected by accident. Somehow, she knew he would call within a matter of minutes. She needed to stay here long enough to try and lure them out. Enough time to make sure her grandfather was in the clear. She loaded the McManus. She had twelve shots on her, total. Not counting her pistol and SMG. She prayed it would be enough.

She could feel the familiar sensations setting in. Her skin prickled, her blood raced, and her muscles tensed, as she began walking over to one of the abandoned shacks, peeling back some of the twisted metal frame. She snapped up her phone the second it rang.

"I'm coming up to where you are," Pierce said. "Goddammit." There was a pause as he honked his horn, followed by the sounds of crunching metal.

It made her grit her teeth. "A'right, I-" But as she said this, her eye caught a glimpse of a parachute hidden under a pile of bullet proof vests.

She picked up a pair of the vests, along with the parachute. She was surprised by how heavy the vests were. She began to wonder.

"Boss?" Pierce bellowed. "You still there?"

"Yeah. I got a plan."

Within seconds, she'd explained to him, and began desperately shrugging on one of the vests, then her red and blue Hawaiian jacket, followed by the parachute. Soon, she noticed that the sounds of the helicopter's blades had become deafening. She looked up and could see the nose of the leading chopper teasing the edge of the treeline, slowly coming into view. Before she knew it, she was backing away towards the waterfall. She was sandwiched between the steep drop of the fall, and the equally steep wooden ramp that acted as a bridge for daredevils, she reckoned. Any hope of taking on the choppers alone was diminished as three came in, flanked on either side. She knew there would be more to come. Perhaps several waves. All of them emblazoned with the Ultor logo on the front, just above the marvelous machine guns. She wondered if whoever had designed these choppers had perhaps been compensating for something.

They slowly began to hover in closer. She was going to wait until they had a clear shot. Not a second before then. She may have been unable to see the pilot's faces, but she could tell. They were ready. She grinned, clutching the McManus against her chest, then tipped herself backwards ever so slightly. Just before she fell, she kicked off from the ledge. Almost as soon as she dropped, she let loose her parachute. She could see the lead chopper raising, just as she took aim. She hoped the force would help bridge the gap between her and the road, as well as take out the head chopper. Her shot off by a couple of inches, chipping the window. She cursed, firing off two more shots, one of which seemed to hit its' target, sending the leading one crashing down, in a spectacular fireball. The other choppers gave it a wide berth, in order to get a clear shot from amongst the smoke. She grasped this opportunity, tugging at the straps on the parachute, as she began to steer her way, fighting against the blazing wind. She could even feel some of the heat from the exploded chopper, as she glanced over her shoulder, briefly. A pair of choppers emerged from the smoke, their machine guns flashing as they took aim again.

She could see Gat's Hammerhead come into view, screeching to a halt – she could barely make out Pierce as a pair of Saints in the back waved, and Pierce honked the horn. She approached, unhooking herself from the parachute as she came crashing down atop his car. She rolled off, the parachute floating down and covering his car. She stumbled, springing back onto her feet, as a pair of boys let loose a hail of bullets at the choppers. It wasn't likely to make much of a dent, but it'd buy them a brief few seconds, as the Boss swung into the front seat. She didn't have to tell him; Pierce wasn't taking any chances either, putting the pedal to the metal the instant she was in, the parachute flying off.

The Boss let out a sigh of relief. But they weren't outta the woods yet.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: My apologies for the lack of updates recently, and for the massive edit I did in the previous chapter - long story short, I swapped the drivers around, from Gat to Pierce, and I believe I changed the car model from his Stilheto to Gat's Hammerhead. Just a minor change. I just felt it'd be better for the overall story, as you'll see from the way the chapter unfolds. And I apologize in advance, as this chapter is going to be something of a cliff-hanger... No spoilers here :P Enjoy!**

It'd been about an hour or two after Gat'd asked Shaundi to take out that hoe, and during that time him and Pierce'd had a rather heated discussion. It seems Pierce didn't appreciate being cock-blocked, and Gat didn't appreciate him being a little bitch via questioning his decision. Pierce'd grumbled something about Gat being a macho-bravado twat, to which Gat turned upon him and snapped;

"Excuse me?"

Other than his knife, he was scarcely armed. Unlike Pierce, whom never went anywhere without at least a pistol.

Regardless, Pierce was getting sick of this. "Yo, Gat. What the fuck's your problem? Why you beefin' with a brother for getting' laid?"

To which Gat responded via holding up a hand in a warding off gesture. "Listen, man. I really don't give a fuck where you stick your scrawny dick." Pierce opened his mouth to retort but Gat continued; "Besides, that chick was way outta your league."

Pierce glared at him, then sighed, softening. "Y'know, I get it. You lost your girl, and trust me, I feel for ya."

Gat narrowed his eyes, jabbing a finger at Pierce. "Don't. You have no fucking right bringing her up." He replied icily, stepping back and continued pacing.

Pierce spread his arms, palms splayed. "What the fuck is your problem with me, Gat?"

He would've replied with a dismissive "go fuck yourself" if he hadn't been cut off by a deafening explosion. A cluster of Saints emerged from the rec rooms, one of them removing his headphones and shouting;

"What was that?" Looking between Pierce and Gat for direction.

The two of them shrugged, before hastily scrambling for the guns kept in the Boss' weapon cache, hidden within the office adjacent to the main atrium. There wasn't much to go around, but thankfully most of the Saints had the sense of mind to bring their own guns, much like Pierce had. Unfortunately this meant Gat was stuck with a lousy pistol, one that was infamous for jamming easily. He begrudgingly tucked it into his back pocket, for now. It looked like he'd be using his lucky knife – the same one he'd used to take the upper hand, after being shot by Green all those years ago.

Another explosion followed, this one rocking the hideout to its' core. Gat grinned, keen to lead the charge.

Pierce gripped his arm. "Woah, wait. You're not going out there with just those, are you?" He asked.

Gat rolled his eyes. "Yes, mom." He snapped, barging past to catch up with the rest of the Saints.

Pierce shifted from foot to foot. "You think we should call in the Boss?" He asked.

"Nah, there'd be no fun." He shrugged, waving Pierce off.

"What about Shaundi?" Pierce asked.

"Girl can hold her own. She'll be fine." Gat said, then paused. "Since when did you give a shit about her anyway?" He asked.

Pierce hissed. "The hell I do. I'm just thinking about back-up, man. What if we get swamped?" He asked.

Gat shrugged again, smirked as he rounded the corner to the elevator. "Then we go out in style." He said, as he pushed the button on the elevator.

A few seconds later, the doors slid open, and as he looked down, he sprung away, upon registering the single grenade in the middle.

"Move!" He yelled, ducking and covering, just as it exploded, sending metal shrapnel slicing through the air.

Luckily Gat had mostly shielded Pierce from the bang, yet both of their ears were still ringing. It was a miracle neither of them had lost a limb.

"Looks like the elevator's out of use." Pierce grumbled, helping Gat up.

Gat winced, probing his lower back and noticed a chunk of metal embedded in the soft flesh. He tried straightening up, yet that only caused it to tear deeper.

"Holy shit, Gat.. You needa sit out, man."

Gat merely shoved him back. "Fuck that. I ain't gonna sit on my ass and wait for them to come to me." He staggered past, trooping up the stairs, despite the agony that surged up and down his spine, rattling through his body.

A handful of Masako had already broken through the line it seemed, as some came stomping down the steps, rifles at the ready. Pierce aimed at the guy's chest, spraying half a clip of bullets, until the soldier fell over.

"Aim for the head! You're wasting bullets like that." Gat hollered from the bottom of the steps as Pierce continued to clear a path.

"Would you quit complainin' and hurry the fuck up? I can only hold them off for so long!" He called back.

Gat staggered up the steps, grunting and grumbled "Bitch, bitch, bitch."

Pierce managed to usher Gat into the garage next door, throwing the bolt behind the steel doors, buying them some time against the next wave of attackers. Gat propped himself up against one of the many cars on standby. Sometimes he felt like a spy being in here, with the metal-plated walls and cold stone floor, everything meticulously polished. He squinted through the gaps in the garage door and managed to see his Hammerhead parked on the next block over. All across his field of vision, were criss-crossing projectiles slicing through the air. There game a bright flash, followed by a thunderous explosion that was so powerful it smacked against the steel shutters, throwing up spittles of dirt and gravel. Gat recoiled, rubbing his eyes from the brightness.

Pierce began fitting a fresh clip into his SMG, barely glancing at Gat. "That'll teach you for being an asshole." He replied, smirking.

Gat's eyes narrowed on Pierce, sizing him up. "Shut up and gimme your gun." Gat demanded, reaching out to snatch the SMG, but found he could barely lift it without wincing. Like fuck he'd show weakness around the cocky lil son-ova-bitch.

Pierce clutched his weapon closer to his chest. "Hell, no way, man. Can you even aim straight with that thing lodged inside you?" He replied.

Gat was tempted to both roll his eyes and draw his gun.

"Wait. Gat, how good is your aim?" Pierce asked. Gat blinked, a little taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation.

A loud thud sounded on the metal door and he shrugged. "You kidding? I'm like the Jet Lee of firearms. Why?" He asked.

Pierce nodded over to a set of rusted spiral staircases set into the corner of the room. Usually it was hidden well behind workbenches and steel sheets, seeing as it was abit of an eyesore - at least in comparison to the rest of the room. Carlos had insisted they keep it around in case of emergencies. This seemed like as good as any.

"Get to the roof. Maybe you can pick some of them off." Pierce added, helping Gat, as he tried to haul himself off the bonnet of a gorgeous Voxel. Pierce wasn't certain what was most disarming; the fact that Gat was listening to him, or trusting Pierce in the first place to come up with a plan.

"Why, what you gunna do?" Gat asked, wincing as he say up, eyeing Pierce suspiciously. Gat checked how much ammo he had on the pistol – not much.

"I'll go meet the Boss, see if we can round up ourselves a crew and get her the hell outta this town." Pierce replied.

Gat's eyes darkened; he growled. "She told me there was no way our luck would last this long – guess she was right." Gat grunted, then nodded back. "I wouldn't be surprised if our little friend, Dex went and sent us these bastards, personally. Maybe as a warning."

Gat leveled his eyes at Pierce. Could it be possible his little Ultor spy had betrayed them? Or maybe Pierce had managed to cut a deal with Dex at some point... Or maybe this whole time, Pierce'd been working undercover. Like Troy had done. Before Pierce could respond, the grating sound of helicopter blades filled the air, silencing them both. Every second they spent dallying was another second wasted. Pierce helped Gat to his feet, leading him up to the roof, exchanging his SMG with Gat, whom was keen to make himself useful in defending his boys.

Another gust of wind swept over the building, spraying dust and gravel in his face. Gat staggered across the roof, taking cover behind a large air ventilation unit. He glanced down, and instantly he recognized the hapless foot-soldiers as the Masako – Ultor's finest, decked out in Kevlar armor, riot helmets and rifles. He grunted, watching a single helicopter swoop down, inches off the tarmac, as the men began pouring out, and clashing with a wave of purple-clad Saints. Gat felt his throat clench. There was no doubt about it – the Saints were easily outnumbered by this lot. He narrowed his eyes, his vision fixed on a speckle of dark spots looming in the distance. _No. It couldn't be, could it? More?_ It looked like a whole swarm of them, combing the skies.

Pierce had drawn a similar conclusion, after having scrambled back down, peeking through the shutters. His entire body almost seized up with fear, until he remembered that he had a job to do, and began shaking the tension from his fingertips, exhaling until he was calm. He gripped his weapon tighter, squeezed his eyes shut, and banished all thoughts of failure from his mind, allowing an otherworldly calm to settle over him.

Gat was only vaguely aware of movement around him, as a handful of other Saints had had the sense to flee to the roof top before him. Including a stubby, scruffy little kid called Oscar, with thick framed glasses, and a face smudged with dirt. He was scuttling about, trying to keep low, with a wooden crate strapped to his back. Gat overheard the clattering of beer bottles, and it was only when he looked up that he spotted a pair of his boys carrying bundles of the bottles, stuffed with rags. He smiled to himself, proud of his mates. Oscar dumped the crate, shuffling up beside Gat, just as eager to blow these motherfuckers up.

Oscar gave an unnervingly large, full-toothed grin. "Can't wait to see these lovelies put to good use." He said, softly giggling to himself. Gat arched an eyebrow, then leaned over, taking a peek inside the crate. Instantly, he recognized the black and yellow symbol upon the bundles of fireworks – the Ronin Dragon.

Gat chuckled and gave Oscar's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Brother, I like the way you think."

Oscar had been setting up a stand, fitting a slender rocket onto the rusted wire frame. He began to take aim. It was a miracle he could see a damn thing, with his hoodie so tightly wrapped around his large-set shaven head. He rolled his shoulders forward, his big green eyes darting about, scanning the streets, waiting for the right moment, and the right angle. He licked his lips like a snake. His movements were jittery, his hands shaking as he prepared to take out an approaching Masako van as it careened down the back roads of Shivington.

Gat glanced passed Oscar, and saw that the other two were lined up beside him, preparing a large batch of Molotov cocktails. Gat beamed with pride, bringing his weapon up and ready, and began raining down a hail of bullets at the invading Masako, taking out a large chunk of the first wave. The screech of car tires set his teeth on edge. Oscar sat up, shuffled closer as the van thundered down the alley, that lead to the blood-stained parking lot just outside the hideout. All it took was a single spark. The rocket went spiraling out from beneath his grasp, an array of color, light and a shrill shrieking noise, until the rocket hit its' target dead on. Gat snapped his head towards the other two. "C'mon! Just throw the damn liquor!" He bellowed.

They fumbled but made up for it with their aim, sending the bottles crashing down upon the advancing Masako. The fire set up a brief barrier between the two front lines, allowing for some breathing room. The same couldn't be said for Pierce.

Pierce could hear the bangs and shouts on the other side of the door, snapping his eyes open, as he drew in a deep, steadying breathe, before throwing the bolt back, and kicking the door open. He scanned the dark dank hallway, checking it was clear, his pistol at the ready. He rounded the corner, his shoulders prickling in anticipation. He gulped, getting into position behind the main door that lead back into the church room. Something tickled his nostrils – the smell of smoke and ash stung his eyes, and suddenly he was gripped with pure terror. Before he could think too hard on it, he squashed his fear and jerked the flea-bitten door open.

His eyes were assaulted by a bright light. _Flashbag_! _Damnit._ He shielded his eyes, jumping clear, his ears ringing. He managed to duck behind the nearest pew, feeling the shaking of the wood seep into his bones, as each bullet splintered the wood even further, sending shards flying, getting caught in his doo rag. Pierce managed to blink away the dust, long enough to get a glimpse of the impressive line-up of Masako. He sighed, positioning himself under cover, pressed up against the pew.

No way was he getting' smoked.

One by one, Pierce managed to take them out, springing towards him in groups of three. Pierce had plenty of practice – he often timed himself for how long it'd take him to reload. Suffice it to say, he was faster than the rest of them. Perhaps even faster than the Boss, even if his aim was mediocre at best. He could see a second wave inching their way behind the first. He clenched his teeth shut, focusing on taking out each soldier as fast as possible, ignoring the pang in his chest to see each one go down. After the fourteenth soldier, there came an alarming click as he pulled the trigger.

"Shit!" He hissed, scrambling out from his spot, leaping for cover behind the pew adjacent to his. He winced, as a bullet grazed his forearm, drawing blood. He had to get to the door, but it was already filling with more and more Masako. He was doomed.

Gat and Oscar were doing everything they could to keep the Masako at bay. Oscar was anxious, being very sparing with his fireworks, unlike Gat, whom was happy to lay into the approaching soldiers.

Without looking up from the slaughter, Gat yelled; "Why don't you just blow up the entrance? They're getting in! Blow them the fuck away, already!"

Oscar seemed conflicted. "I know! But, I can't just go firing at our own building! It'd be like shooting yourself in the foot – literally!" He said, miming a building collapsing, followed by a fireball-sound affect. Gat gaped at him, unable to hide his minor disgust at this crude representation – he shook it off, conceding that it would be a dumbass move.

"We need to flush them out!" Gat replied. "Any ideas?"

Oscar shrugged, before one of the Molotov-making Saints pointed to an alleyway on the opposite side of the parking lot. He recognized it as Shaundi's van, and he wanted to fist-pump the air in triumph, until he noticed the smoke and flames billowing out from the car.

Pierce felt shivers run up and down his spine, the gunfire rattling his teeth. His options were narrowing; soon he'd have no choice at all. Either he'd need backup, or he'd have to try and wrestle a gun from one of the soldiers and hope he didn't get pumped through with more holes than a sponge. He closed his eyes and tried to picture himself in a happier time – back when him and his sister, play fighting with sticks in the park. Surely, it couldn't be that hard. He'd seen Gat do it a bunch of times in a fight. But then again, Pierce wasn't nearly as strong as Gat. Fast, yes. Powerful, no. Maybe, if he managed to sneak behind the pews, and jump one of them, or trip them, maybe he could snag a rifle from them. He glanced around for the nearest unsuspecting target. Maybe he could jack one from one of the bodies. Assuming he didn't get caught in the line of fire. He was running out of options, and it didn't look like he was going to last much longer on his own – the pew he was using for cover was quickly disintegrating.

He swallowed a rising slither of bile, lunged across the space, snatching up the handle of one of the rifles. He yelped as a bullet punched through his shoulder, splattering blood up his face. He recoiled behind the pew, his arm shaking from the shock as he checked the ammo on his new weapon. He wondered if he could even grip it with his latest injury. He could feel tears bead in his eyes, but he bit his lip and pushed it from his mind. He was a soldier too, damnit. He swiveled back up onto his knees, and in short quick bursts managed to fell sweep his gun across the room, ducking as soon as one of the Masako began tweaking their aim to just the right position. He let out a gust of air, his pulse thumping like crazy through his adrenalin fueled haze. His shoulder sizzled in pain, agonizing throbs protesting as he hefted his weapon again, and was surprised to see the Masako already dispersing. He wanted to cheer, and scream all sorts of taunts at them, until he realized that someone else was fighting their way through. He felt like throwing the gun down, running out and dancing for joy, but he knew better – it could very well be even more of a war zone out there. He helped clear out the rest of the room, before rising on stiff legs. Once the door was clear, he realized just who had come to his aid. His jaw nearly hit the floor.

"Shaundi?"

She grinned and gave his shoulder a playful punch, not realizing it was the one that'd been shot. Pierce winced, but she seemed unaware.

"O c'mon, Pierce. Don't look so shocked. Couldn't let you boys have all the fun, huh?" Her smiled faded when she realized how bloodied and haggard he looked. "You look like you been through hell," she cooed, guiding him outside.

It was so surreal. The quietness, after all the chaos from the explosions, and gunfire. And the stillness. There was a monstrous puddle that carpeted the front entrance, as well as a handful of upturned police cars, and shredded remains of Masako vans. Shaundi grimaced as the blood seeped into sneakers, trying her best to step around the puddle. Pierce tried to not trip over the corpses that littered the parking lot.

Meanwhile Oscar and the other two Saints began helping Gat down from the roof, making use of the awning over the theater entrance. Gat and Shaundi slapped palms, before she gasped at the chunk of metal sticking out of his side.

"Uh, Gat, that really does not look healthy." She said. Gat waved her off, and Pierce added;

"I told the motherfucker that, but he ain't ever listen."

Gat narrowed his eyes at them, glancing between the two of them. "Look, if I say I'm fine, I'm fine." He then pointed upwards. "I think our main concern should be those assholes comin' and bombing the shit outta us." He slurred. He felt an odd wave of dizziness sweep over him.

"Why're they coming after us again? I thought the Boss made that deal with Gryphon, right, Pierce?" She asked.

Pierce shrugged. "Don't look at me. I wasn't there when that shit went down. I'm only goin' off what the Boss told me." Pierce and Shaundi exchanged looks. All of a sudden, Shaundi, Pierce, Oscar and the other Saints' eyes were all on Gat.

He blinked. "What?" He snapped. Pierce went toe to toe with Gat, squaring up to him.

"Well, maybe the bitch told you something about that deal she didn't tell us, huh? You bein' her favorite." Pierce challenged.

Gat's eyes lit with amusement, giving him a dangerous bad-boy smirk, before shoving Pierce back. "Like shit she did. And don't you talk about the Boss like that, ya dickless douche. I earned my place here, way before you did." He growled, shifting on his unsteady feet.

Shaundi managed to wedge herself between the two, before anything could escalate "Look," she began. " This is stupid. It's probably a different branch of Ultor. Like that Mexican one, Pierce was talking about." She said.

"Yeah?" Pierce began, voice dripping with sarcasm. "And how d'you think those bastards figured out where we was, or what our plans were, huh?"

"Someone probably tipped them off," one of the Molotov-wielding Saints added.

There came a long pause, everyone avoiding each other's gaze, as the fight went out of each of them, leaving a chilling tenseness amongst them.

Finally, Shaundi broke the silence. "I guess the question is, who."

"If it indeed, is them." Oscar added.

Shaundi peeked up at Pierce, whom began rubbing his temples, trying to ease the frustration away. He got it; no one trusted him. After all, he was the one with the mysterious contact - but there was no way he was gunna get Lex wrapped in this anymore than she already was. He'd promised her. Nonetheless, their lack of trust was a huge insult to all the work he'd been doing, how he'd busted his nuts for these ungrateful bastards. He could feel anger and disgust broil inside of him. They could all take the piss, and point to him when the chips were down – he'd prove them wrong. He was just as dedicated to his crew as any of them. He'd show them.

There came a distant shrill sound, and before Pierce could register what was happening, Gat had tackled him and Shaundi, crashing behind a dumpster. The ground shook, cracking all around as a fireball rose up near the entrance, tossing any remaining vehicles in the air like confetti, twisting and singing the metal as smoke filled the air, hailing down chunks of debris. Pierce managed to clamp his hands over his ears, as the deafening tremors rattled around inside his skull. Shaundi let out a shriek, her teeth clenched shut, a trickle of blood descending from each ear. Gat winced and shakily tried to stand up. Oscar was behind them, the sleeves of his hoodie coated in flames as he ran 'round, trying to pat them out. There were no signs of the other two – Pierce cursed. All that flammable liquid tied around their waist must've gone up quickly, as was evident by their burning bodies, that convulsed , before slumping to ground, roasting alive. They'd died in the arms of the Saint's hideout. Pierce's cheeks were wet with tears, and it wasn't until Gat slapped him that the rest of his senses came into focus. Gat was trying to tell him. About his ride. And how he knew for a fact, that the trunk was overflowing with weapons, from brass knuckles, to RPGs. Plenty to fend off these motherfuckers. Thrusting Gat's keys into his palm and telling him to go. Shaundi taking Gat's arm and helping him up. Gat waved him off

"Go!" He yelled.

Pierce managed to regain his composure, hoisting himself onto his feet, then turning and stumbling over to where Gat's car sat, 'round the corner. Pierce clutched the rifle close to him, the ringing in his ears gradually fading. He could feel a shadow creep over him, and he glanced up at the hulking helicopter. He sprinted full pelt to the nearest cover, sandwiching himself between a pair of buildings. His heart pounded, chest rising and falling as he regained his breath. His legs ached, his kneecaps felt like they were going to burst, as he slumped against the wall, hoping the shadows would keep him hidden. He idly wondered if the missiles on that helicopter were heat-seeking, as he shuffled deeper. Gat had said that his Hammerhead was parked a block away, and in peeking down the alleyway, he managed to spot the gleaming blue hood, with the gold spinners. Pierce didn't know whether to smile or roll his eyes – typical over-compensatory Gat.

Pierce fumbled for the keys, which was hard given how his pockets were slick with blood. He groaned, wiping his keys on the passenger's seat, then shoved them into the ignition. His head was still reeling from the toxins. He cursed under his breathe, as he stamped on the accelerator, and began speeding through the mid-afternoon traffic, zig-zagging between the lanes.

Any of Pierce's earlier dizziness was hammered out, as he and a pair of Saints he'd picked up, managed to liberate some deadly-looking rifles from the corpses of dead Masako. Pierce admired their practicality. Even though they both couldn't stop boasting about it, and kept pestering Pierce with questions, like why was he bleeding, where were they going, when were they going to kill Dex, who was going to Mexico, ect. It was a relief when he did pick the Boss up, as her presence alone was enough to get them to quieten down. He reckoned their rush was fading, or possibly they were more focused on fending off the choppers, as Pierce tried to shake them off their tail. It was such a thrill, the wind on his face, the smell of sweat and fear, as well as the rapid beat of his own heart. Between the crashes, and bright flashes as missiles rained down around them, blasting apart nearby cars, Pierce somehow managed to keep his eyes fixed on the road.

The Boss flipped her phone shut "Tobias'll meet us at the dock with his chopper." She said, shoving her phone away.

She glanced back to make sure the others weren't harmed – they both seemed ecstatic, checking for any pursing helicopters, and firing at any that happened to enter their field of vision. The Boss wondered if perhaps that might just be giving themselves away. then turned back to Pierce. "What about the others?"

"They know." Pierce began, throat parched. "Shaundi and Gat are gunna be taking care of shit whilst we're gone." He replied. He omitted the part about Gat being down for the count – he didn't want the Boss to know that the pair of them had fucked up and let their guard down.

"Huh. Well, that's something." The Boss grumbled.

She narrowed her eyes, in thought. "So, this informant of yours." She began. "Can you get ahold of her at all?"

Pierce gulped - his mind was still in a haze, the image of those poor kids, burning up filled his head. "What?" He slurred.

"The bitch, Pierce." The Boss growled impatiently, leaning over and keeping her voice low. "We're going to need all the information we can get on that spineless git."

Pierce felt a small smile spread across his lips – if she'd said this days ago before Lexi had appeared, he wouldn't have minded her calling his sister a bitch. Instead, he felt strangely defensive of her.

"First of all, she's not a bitch." He said firmly.

"Whatever, man." She replied, then glanced over at him. "Just make sure you guys get the city locked down whilst I'm gone. I don't wanna come back and find our city in shambles, again."

Pierce gave a jerk of the wheel, skidding as the car game to a halt outside the fish processing plant. "You ain't goin' out there on you own." He snapped as she stepped outta the car.

She then pivoted and gestured for the two in the back to follow. She gave a quick scan of the sky, blatantly ignoring Pierce's protests as she and her helpers been extracting the weapons from the trunk of Gat's car. They began to stroll down the dock, Pierce keeping pace until he eventually blocked her path – a ballsy move given how she was armed to the teeth.

"Listen. You just gotta consider all possibilities. If you get smoked, who's gunna call the shots, huh? Tweedle Derp and Tweedle Dingus?" He said, gesturing to the pair behind her.

One of them gaped and leveled her rifle at him, but the Boss waved her off.

She sighed. "He's got a point." Said the Boss.

They all stiffened, glancing back down the way they'd come, as a barrage of sirens began to fill the air. The Boss turned to face the street, watching as a wave of police cars and Masako vans rounded the corner and came barreling towards them. It was like a tsunami of metal and flashing lights. The four of them tensed, weapons at the ready, but it was clear that just the four of them and they would surely be overwhelmed by this army, as their manpower was limited. The Boss finally found her voice, and manage to get out one harsh epithet through her rigidly clenched teeth;

"Shit."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: My apologies for the long wait. Suffice it to see, life was kicking my tail abit, but I am looking forward to getting back into the swing of things with this new chapter done. Either way, hope you enjoy!**

Flashes of bright light passed over Beth's frail self. Her eyes managed to flutter open, blurry shadowy faces filling her vision. Her head was throbbing, her eyes burning from the light. Her lips were cracked and bleeding, red raw. She tried opening her mouth in panic, as one of the unrecognisable faces pressed a plastic mask over her mouth. She wanted to lift her hands up and pry it off, but they felt completely detached from her body, every limb felt as heavy as lead. A gust of air filled her oxygen starved lungs. Yet there was something else. Beth could feel her grip on consciousness slipping. Her heart was pounding, her eyes flitting back and forth between the faces. Her vision was steadily fading, her thoughts becoming even more vague and incoherent.

Beth felt like she was floating on a cloud, tendrils of soft light reaching forth and pulling her from the black oozing pit she'd been trapped in for the past few hours. Her senses were muted, her body soothed, and her spirit at peace as she was lifted into the sky, bathed in light. She felt tears trickle down her cheeks. Whether it was in joy or remorse, she couldn't tell. Had she really died when they brought her in?

The last few hours had gone by in a blur, Beth powerless to say or do anything. All she could do was watch. She couldn't say how long she'd been lying in the sand. She remembered the dropping temperature, her body shivering, as she curled in on herself, like a defenseless little bug. Her body felt stiff, exposed to the harsh whipping winds, sand kicking up and smacking into her face. All night, she endured this. Her stomach ached, sharp pains digging into her gut and rumbling like thunder. She whimpered, crusted snot catching more of the sand, irritating her further. She wiped her face clean with the back of her sleeve, bundling up even tighter. Her body couldn't take the sudden shifts of hot and cold. She simply wasn't prepared for any of this.

But how could she? She'd clung to that one image from before; the needle as it stabbed into her neck. She couldn't quite believe that he'd done it. Her fingers would occasionally stroke the bruised flesh, reminding herself. She couldn't have imagined that, surely? Perhaps it was just an insect bite? Still, as her head cleared, more memories filled her mind. Him stern faced, teeth clenched, as he turned on her. She remembered falling, dust swirling around her face. Him standing over her. He must've said something, but by that point whatever drug he'd injected her with must've started taking affect, as darkness swamped her.

Panic raced through her whenever she recalled the events of the last few days. Dex had abandoned her! She'd sobbed and sobbed, until there were no more tears left. Her head ached, lulling her into an uneasy sleep. She remembered hearing noises. Voices speaking in a foreign language, and a pair of warm, strong arms enveloping her. Body cold, and her mind numbed from fear and exhaustion, she refused to fight back, giving into whatever fate these strangers had in mind for her. She weeped, cringing in fear, her insides swimming in bile. She was so scared, she felt like a bird, trapped in a cage, with no control over her fragile little life.

She was a pawn. That's all she had been. A distraction. A decoy. But for what? That question kept sneaking up on her, in the tempest of terror that threatened to swallow her up, and consume her entirely. She'd gone very still, limp in the arms of the fellow that carried her. She'd easily been able to tune out their chatter, her mind distracted by that simple question; why. Why had her brother abandoned her? Why'd he leave her for dead? Why'd he drug her? Why was he running? But more so, _what_ was he running from?

One word came into her head, and refused to shake itself, rooted deep in brain: military. Somehow, it seemed to be the only thing Dex would talk about. Weapons, platoons, marines, radar, airforce, infantrymen, tanks, rockets, snipers. All of it, he was fascinated. She remembered he was very fond of history back in school. He'd indulge himself with reports from some of the most famous wars throughout history, particularly civil war. It was his hobby. She just couldn't figure out why a simple head of security for a clothing corporation would be a viable target. Unless...

Her mind spiraled out of control, trying to put together the pieces of an invisible puzzle. It was driving her mad, and so it came as a relief when the gas mask came down, and gradually her thoughts were put to rest. Her body, hooked up to all manners of machines, feeding a steady stream of nutrients into her gut. Her eyes fluttered, catching glimpses of a shadowy figure staring at her, arms folded. She couldn't see his face, a smear of black and brown.

As her head rolled ever so slowly back and forth against the pillow, she could only grasp onto one, slippery thought whenever he crossed her field of vision: she was being watched. It troubled her greatly, further confusing her. Her head swam with possible theories, yet she simply couldn't make sense of any of this; harder still as her brain had turned to mush, fueled by whatever drug they'd used to placate her. She was certain of one thing: she was totally weak. Vulnerable. She had been ever since Dex had pierced that needle into her. The thought tasted bitter in her mouth. Her own brother! Had the world really come to this? Even as she despaired, she was certain of one thing: she had no intention of remaining this pathetic. She'd just lain there like a slug, scared and exposed. It sickened her that her own flesh and blood would make her feel like this. Even more disgusted by her own actions - that she'd just rolled over and given up.

Lying there, seemingly defeated, cold and alone, Beth began plotting. She would watch and she would wait. That's what Dex had done, right? She may have not been a fighter like he was, not especially smart or strong, but she could learn. She would never be made to feel weak again.


End file.
